


The Thrill is Gone

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal, Angst, Barebacking, Bottom!Remy, Cuddling, Custody Issues, Detailed descriptions of violence, Divorce, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending (somehow), Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, LoMy, Oral, Remy LeBeau is a Single Dad and an Empath, Rimming, Rough Sex, past abusive relationship, top!Logan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 98,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan's tired of playing games. Remy's tired of running. Mutual need turns into something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lunch Break

**Author's Note:**

> This is my story that I am reposting from adultfanfiction.org. I am OriginalCeenote there, as well. I also have this story archived on Livejournal and YahooGroups Logan/Remy. Aside from minor tweaks if I find my original typos, I will not be modifying this story, it is complete.

Summary: Logan enjoys people-watching and meets an interesting young man.

Logan stood and wiped his forehead on the faded sleeve of his chambray shirt, rolled just above his elbow; he stared down at the new hardwood floor with satisfaction. The cedar planks gleamed at him with a high shine. This house was gonna fetch their asking price and then some, if they made the sale before they owed another mortgage payment.

“Where we at?” he barked, rolling a kink out of his shoulder as he heard Summers clomp his way inside the kitchen in his steel-toed boots. He was as disheveled as Logan, but managed to look like a grubby Calvin Klein model; women got a kick out of it, if the wads of phone numbers scribbled on receipts, cocktail napkins and slips of paper tucked into his shirt pockets every night were any indication.

He threaded the pencil behind his ear as he tapped the clipboard holding their work orders and checklist. “Looking good. Looking damned good. Landscaper’s here with the sod.”

“Still think we coulda handled that ourselves.”

“Not in time to finish everything else. Gotta stick to what we know. What we know is floors, wiring, and walls. There’s no way we’re gonna muck up the landscaping and compromise the curb appeal after we’ve put in so much work, man.” He handed Logan the checklist for his perusal. “We’re on schedule. This shit never happens on schedule.”

“Does when I do it,” Logan boasted, muttering under his breath as he flipped through each sheet, letting them dangle over the edge of the masonite clipboard. His hazel eyes squinted at Summers’ tidy handwriting. “Travertine, done; tub tile, finished; vanity…why ain’t it marked? I just finished sanding it and installing it yesterday!”

“Here.” Scott handed him the pencil, and Logan impatiently checked it off with a hard black slash. “Take a lunch,” he offered gamely. “Might as well.”

“Get ta go home earlier if I work through it.”

“What’s the point of being your own boss if you don’t enjoy the perks? I’m taking off. I want to meet Aleytys in a while to update the registry.”

Logan snorted. “Have fun with that. How many friggin’ sissy china patterns can ya keep lookin’ at, knowin’ yer only gonna use ‘em once a year?”

“Flatware,” Scott corrected blandly. “We’ve already registered for china. Linens are next.” Logan smirked. Ever since his fiancée moved into his humble two-bedroom bachelor pad, more and more “feminine touches” appeared and took up space, gradually nudging out the things Scott had brought with him when he signed the lease. Movies like “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days” shared space with his “Die Hard” DVDs, and there were silk flower arrangements in the bathroom. A set of wind chimes tinkled cheerfully from the patio, confirming Logan’s suspicions: Summers was whipped.

“Just wait’ll you tie the knot, Logan. Go ahead, laugh now.”

“I’m gonna be laughin’ fer a while.”

“Asshole,” Scott chuckled. He grabbed his bomber jacket and folded it over his arm and then paused by the door. “You coming to the stag party? Alex is throwing it at his place. Gonna be some decent food.”

“Gotta bring my own beer?”

“If you want; we’ll still have plenty.”

“What time?”

“Saturday. Around seven. There’s a party after the party at Harry’s Hideaway.” Logan twisted his mouth.

“Shit…”

“Might wanna have someone post bail ahead of time, just in case,” he quipped before striding out. “Later.” The door swished shut. Logan wished too late that it had hit him on the ass on the way out.

 

~0~

The scent of steak fries greeted him before he even walked in through the front of Clarissa’s Diner on Fifth Street, a copy of the New York Times folded under his arm. He winked at the hostess, who gave him a perfunctory smile before she herded an elderly couple to the only empty booth in the front dining lounge. She came back in a dither; the place was packed with the lunch rush, and orders were piled precariously, tickets spinning from the overhead carousel as she gathered up a menu from the shelf.

“One today?”

“Yup. Just me, darlin’.”

“This way.” She was relatively young. Logan had seen her serving before as well as handling the register. Clarissa’s was understaffed, but she had the best food within ten city blocks. It was worth the wait. “D’you mind a seat at the counter?”

“Nope.” She ushered him to it, and he was pleased to note that there were three empty seats. He took the one in the middle, giving himself enough room to spread out his paper.

The counter was spotless, and Logan spun the drink and dessert menu around on its stand, debating on whether to try the lemon meringue. He folded his paper to the editorial section and let the clamor around him fade to a dull roar.

His neck ached from the bending and nailing, but it was a good pain. The house was nearly done; interior and exterior paint were already finished, they’d put the finishing touches on the patio and cover, and Creed already sent over two little punks on spring break to finish up outside to plant the shrubs and annuals to pretty up the front yard.

He’d give himself a week to unwind, he figured. Maybe a camping trip, or a ferry to Nantucket. He needed a break from Summers rambling on about his wedding plans; if he had to listen one more time to his accounts of Aleytys ranting about which wine to serve with the appetizers, and which one for the main dinner, he was gonna start repeating it in his sleep. They’d worked on the split-level house solid for the past two months. Even though Logan and Scott had begun their contracting firm a year after they finished college, and they’d roomed together since their sophomore years, they occasionally got sick of each other’s company. Logan’s first love had been carpentry, something he’d learned from the cradle, watching his dad create works of art with his own two hands. There was something right about the feel of wood taking shape, sanding it til it was velvety smooth, feeling each pound of the hammer resonating through him as he put up walls or bracketed frames.

The crash of a fender bender outside the diner roused him from his paper and made him twist around in his rotating stool at the counter. The woman driving the blue minivan leapt out of the front seat and gave the guy who cut her off at the four-way stop hell, and Logan didn’t pity him. He was driving a Mercedes that had “mid-life crisis and underaged girlfriend” written all over it that now sported a crumpled bumper. The patrons sitting by the long window enjoyed the spectacle and their front-row seats. Out of long habit, Logan treated himself to a brief look around the diner, scanning the crowd. The elderly couple who’d snapped up the last booth looked appalled at the scene, shaking their heads. The wife was an elegant woman who was painstakingly preparing her husband’s coffee for him, stirring in tubs of half-n-half and ripping open sugar packets. The way they moved and communicated was typical of two people who’d shared a lifetime of each other’s mood swings and morning breath.

The concept was as far removed from Logan’s realm of experience as Pluto.

~0~

Remy was swearing at the engine of a vintage Camaro for the third time that afternoon, in two different languages. That was the cue for everyone else in the shop to take a coffee break, check the phone messages, or find anything else useful-looking to do that didn’t involve walking back into the garage.

Remy LeBeau was known for two things: His magic touch with auto body detailing that made Jean-Luc and Sons Racing and Auto one of the biggest names at the car shows and the track, and his famously prima donna attitude toward his cars. Not the owner’s cars. Not the prospective buyer’s cars. HIS cars. They were his babies. His mercurial temper made him a pain in the ass to work with, but every car drove out of Jean-Luc’s lot as a finely crafted work of art.

He stood up and straightened out a kink in his back; his skin felt clammy from the heat of the shop and the layer of engine grease and grit that settled in his sweat. Remy wiped his hands on his already stained, royal blue coveralls that had faded to a mottled chambray and let out a ragged sigh.

“Summa dese folks shouldn’ even be allowed t’operate a bike, let alone a car,” he huffed. He dug into his pockets and fished for change to get himself a Dr. Pepper. He fed the coins into the dilapidated vending machine and pressed the large, flat button for his selection, and swore again when the red “Choose Another Selection” button flashed red in his face. “Merde!” He gave it a swift kick that didn’t help his thirst.

“Don’ be tearin’ up m’shop, mon neveu,” Philippe drawled, scowling at him from around the edge of the windowed door. “Ain’t been on a lunch yet?”

“Non.”

“G’wan, den. Eat. Don’ need ya scarin’ away de help. All Philippe heard all mornin’ wuz his nephew, who my dearly departed brother, his pere, thought he raised betta den dat, swearin’ like Lola de putain from her salon down de street.”

“Pardon, Oncle.” His eyes were devilish, as usual, their unusual color not the only cause. They twinkled with mischief and affection for the shorter, more portly man who shared Remy’s good looks.

“Don’ ‘Pardon, Oncle’ dis ol’ Cajun, ya learned dat trick from me! Don’ give me those puppy dog eyes, neither. What’s wrong wi’ de engine?”

“Nate ordered de wrong size valves. Can’t finish til dey come in.”

“Waited til de last minute t’tell him, neh?” Remy shrugged. “Don’ lay de blame at his doorstep. Y’had two days t’have him put dat order in fo’ de right valves, boy. Don’ expect Nate t’read Remy’s mind. No tellin’ what he find in ‘dere.” Philippe cracked a smile and reached out, ruffling Remy’s already tousled, sweaty hair. No one else in the shop dared. “First sign o’ low blood sugar, Remy. Y’start gettin’ forgetful. Eat, boy!”

“Wan’ me t’bring anytin’ back?”

“Oui. A betta attitude an’ less ass-chewin’ when y’get back. G’wan!” He shooed him out, brandishing the newspaper he’d rolled up and that he planned to enjoy over his sandwich when he got back to his office.

Remy headed to the rest room in the back and washed as much of the oil and grit from his hands and beneath his nails as he could with the Lava Soap. He hopped into his car, even though Clarissa’s was only a few blocks up the street. The smell of the leather seats soothed him, and he hadn’t finished listening to his favorite hits compilation CD that he’d popped into the stereo that morning on his way to work. B.B. and Lucille wailed their way through a song that carried him through more nights than he could count after he walked out the door of his old house and left Bella screaming after him.

Clarissa’s was packed to the rafters, and Remy’s stomach picked that moment to bitch at him for waiting too long. He wanted his usual table in the back, but it was already occupied by a couple of teenagers looking guilty, like they were cutting class too long on their off-campus lunch period. A few patrons paying their bills at the counter eyed him up and down, wondering what the cat dragged in through the front door. Out of long habit, he ran his fingers through his glossy auburn hair, thankfully cut in a way that could be maintained with infrequent trips to the barber (thank the good Lord), and that hung past his collar.

He gave a slender brunette and her blonde companion a smirk that quickly changed their opinion of his attire. The eyes had it, as his mama used to say. He nodded and smiled. They winked and giggled, tossing a look over their shoulders as the door swung shut behind them.

His favorite little hostess took time away from ringing up a bill to throw him her Sunday-best grin.

_Here comes the hair tuck, he mused. Wait for it…_

“How’ve you been, Rem? Long time, no see.”

“How long fo’ a table, chere?”

“We’re swamped,” she remarked sheepishly, and sure enough, one slender hand reached up to tuck back the long lock of sable bangs that hung over her eye from her simple bun. “Got room at the counter, unless you want to order to go?”

 

“Counter’s fine,” he drawled, despite his disappointment. He followed her obediently, nimbly sidestepping a little boy outrunning his mama’s attempts at getting him to finish his lunch. The urchin grinned up at him with gappy teeth before she caught him by the elbow, and he proceeded to howl in protest. There were only two seats left, both in the middle of the counter, so he’d be elbow to elbow with its other occupants, but there was no help for it.

He took up the swinging stool to the left of the stocky man reading the paper, hoping he wasn’t an incessant talker and that he wouldn’t be put off by his filthy coveralls. Out of the corner of his eye, as he sat, he noticed that his neighbor had a job almost as dirty as his, from the look of his worn jeans, the grubby work gloves stuffed in the pocket of the jacket hanging over his seat, and the streaks of what looked like tile adhesive smudged over broad knuckles. His rolled-up sleeves revealed brawny, hairy arms, adorned only by a thick silver watch. He felt the brief impression of eyes sneaking a glance at him as he took the menu from Penny and started reading the specials.

Just when he heard the beef dip and fries calling his name, a deep voice rumbled, “Mind passin’ me two sugars?”

“Non,” he replied easily, sliding over the whole crystal-cut bowl of sweeteners and nodding in greeting. “Knock y’self out, mec.” He didn’t expect any further conversation from him, even though the sports section pages he’d spied over his shoulder tempted Remy.

“S’crowded.”

“Yup.” Remy turned back to his menu and beckoned to the waitress, who had just begun pouring a man three seats down a refill of his iced tea. He perused the other offerings and still settled on his usual beef dip; nothing ever appealed to him enough to try something new. Five ravenous minutes later, Remy gave his order for the sandwich and fries and settled for the Mug root beer, since Clarissa never kept Dr. Pepper on the menu. He wouldn’t’ hold it against her; he’d been coming to her place with his papa ever since he owned his first Huffy with a banana seat.

The faint scent of newsprint tickled his nose each time his neighbor flipped a page of his paper; Remy was tempted to ask him the scores from the Nicks game he’s missed, even though he’d set his Tivo to save it for him until he could sit down and enjoy it with some barbecue.

“Ya work on cars?”

“Old cars,” Remy corrected him, and he ceased spinning the dessert carousel to occupy himself and finally twisted his lean body around to look the man in his rugged face. “Classic cars.”

“That’s the only kind, in my book, youngster,” he chuckled, and laugh lines softened a pair of deep-set, coffee brown eyes topped with shaggy black brows with a slight arch. Something in his bearing reminded Remy of his uncle Philippe; he looked a handful of years younger than his father’s younger brother, but his raven hair was deceptively free of gray. “Which shop do ya work out of?”

“Mon pere’s,” he replied. “My uncle’s runnin’ it now. Jean-Luc and Sons,” he added smugly. He was rewarded by the look of instant recognition that sent the stranger nodding and snapping his fingers.

“Right! Right,” he mused. “Summers talks about yer shop and the beauties you guys bring to the car shows whenever he goes. Saw that specialty Lincoln with the custom paint.”

“Gotta be more specific than that,” Remy boasted, but he warmed to his subject. “Which show?”

“The one in the Poconos, at Caesar’s.”

“Coyote Ugly,” he nodded, and the left corner of his mouth twisted, making his lean cheek dimple. “Remy did the body paint on dat one.”

“Who’s Remy?” he inquired. Remy tapped his name badge embroidered onto his coveralls, even though it was smudged with motor oil and difficult to read.

“Y’lookin’ at him. I’m one o’ de sons in the shop’s name. Adam handles de front counter.”

“All right. Ya do okay for yerself, then. I love cars,” he confessed as he flapped and folded the pages of his paper and set it aside, leaving it open to the sports section. “Classics. The crap they pass off the assembly line ain’t the way they made ‘em back in my pop’s day. Old trucks used ta last and wear like iron. They had character. I’m still drivin’ MY old man’s truck, and it’s thirty years old. She’s my baby,” he remarked.

“What’s her name, den?” Remy quipped.

“Lulu.”

“Bet Lulu’s a mighty fine woman,” he grinned back. “Treat her right, she’ll stay wit’ ya fo’ life.” He wasn’t expecting a man like this roughneck in plaid flannel to name his truck. He liked him already. 

Their waitress juggled both of their plates and set them down, muttering a harried “Let me know if you need anything” before she rushed off. Remy cursed under his breath when he noticed his au jus was missing, and she never brought a bottle of A-1 to the counter.

“Whatsamatter?”

“Didn’ bring Remy’s sauce,” he complained as he folded one of the crisp steak fries into his mouth. He leaned back in surprise as his plate was quickly slid from beneath his nose and exchanged for almost exactly the same order, complete with au jus that sloshed over the edge of the plate with its delivery.

“She gave me one with too many fries,” Logan offered. “And I don’t like that juice ta dip it in. Makes it too damned soggy.” He then committed a sacrilege Remy decided to condone and forgive as he picked up the bottle of ketchup and poured a thick river of it over his remaining fries and another small puddle to dip his sandwich into, which he did with gusto. Remy shook his head.

“Didn’ hafta trouble yaself, homme. Thanks.” Logan nodded around a mouthful and waved it away. They ate in mutual silence for a moment, both with mouths too full to answer when their waitress asked if they needed a refill on their drinks.

Logan checked his watch and then peered around the dining room, searching for their waitress. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Problem?”

“Gotta go. Late fer the landscaper. My partner’s out on a long lunch with his sweetheart, pickin’ out flatware.” Remy grunted under his breath.

“Give him Remy’s condolences.” Logan suppressed a chuckle, but noticed there was something wounded in his posture and regret that shadowed his eyes.

Logan had a hard time looking away from his eyes. They were distinctive; he couldn’t name what it was about them that struck him so sharply, in the yellowish glow of the diner’s overhead lighting.

“Y’buildin’ a house?”

“Renovatin’ one. Picked up a sweet split-level at a foreclosure auction that’s lookin’ like it’ll fetch us our asking price.”

“Like those property flippin’ shows,” Remy guessed.

“Hell, no. We’ve been doin’ this for a few years. We stay on schedule and on plan,” Logan informed him crisply, before it occurred to him, “Want my newspaper?”

“Oui, if ya don’ mind.”

“Sure don’t.” He handed it to him, but held onto his end for a moment before adding “Name’s Logan, by the way.” He let it go and retrieved his bill, scooping his jacket over his arm.

“Have a good one, homme.”

“Later, Rem,” he offered, and Remy waved as he took his leave. His strides were long and swift; he moved like someone who preferred a silent and swift getaway and who didn’t expect anyone to follow him, nor have much contact with whoever’s company he departed.

In the back of Remy’s mind, he had no problem with that.

He dipped his last fry into the au jus and sucked the last, diluted remains of his root beer through his straw and tucked the paper under his arm. He went to the register to be rung up; by the time he left the diner, Logan was long gone.


	2. Running Errands

Summary: Logan and Remy respectively get back to business as usual. We hear a brief voice from Remy’s past.

When Remy headed back to the shop, the afternoon rush had just shown up, and someone had swiped his parking spot. He cursed as he careened into one of the remaining five spaces in the back.

“S’why it say ‘Employees Only,’” he grumbled. The paper was still tucked under his arm, even though he had already read what he wanted of it. He was still humming B.B. under his breath as he strode back into the garage. He flicked on the radio above his rolling tool cabinet and started back to work on the car, deciding he might as well order the new air filter while he was at it, mentally adding one more list to Nate’s order form.

The man in the diner said his name was Logan. There was something steady about that name. It was easy to trust someone with a name like that, or to want to, at any rate… he shook away the thought as quickly as it came. What was wrong with him?

Nate poked his head in through the doorframe. “Got a message, Rem.”

“Yeah?”

“Woman’s voice. Said she needs to talk to you when you get a moment. Preferably today.”

“She give her name?”

“Sounded like you. Country-fried accent,” Nate joked. Remy casually flipped him the bird, widening his grin before he walked out.

“Message is on your timecard,” Nate tossed over his shoulder. Remy sighed and went back to work on the engine, not in any hurry to return the call.

He knew it was Bella. No other woman had his work number, when he never gave it out.

The rest of his day was relatively productive. He fielded two customers inside the shop to spell Nate for his break and had him submit his orders for the custom parts. When he got home, the couch called his name, but he knew he wouldn’t get back up from it, knowing his frequent habit of falling asleep in front of CSI or ESPN. He showered, bowing his face into the bracing spray and clouding the mirror with the aromatic steam of his Old Spice body wash. His knotted muscles eased slightly, and his groans echoed off the shower walls. He still didn’t want to call Bella and disturb his peace, but it had to be done.

He was clad in a grey cotton tank and Harley-Davidson boxer shorts minutes later, hair still damp and slick as he perused the freezer. He pulled out some ribs and set them in the sink to thaw before he started making his patented marinade and barbecue sauce. He slid his B.B. King disc into his small stereo hanging from beneath the cabinet and hummed along in a baritone no one would pay to hear. His evening was beginning to take shape.

As though on cue, his phone jangled from the cradle.

“Merde.” The linoleum felt cool beneath his bare feet as he leaned his butt against the edge of the dinette and drawled, “Dis Remy?”

“Dis Remy? Really?” Her voice held no more love for him than it had weeks ago. “T’ought it be the deadbeat that ain’t been home t’see his fils,” she grumbled sourly. 

“Den stop holdin’ him hostage, chere,” he shot back, already hating the angry flush rising up his neck. “Last Remy knew, his maman was s’posed t’bring him t’Salem, since y’promised. An’ promised again, when y’made excuses ‘bout ‘dis weekend wit’ Tony, and dat weekend wit’ Tony, and how Rene be in bed already, even when y’tol’ me t’call him at de time ya specified, Bella.” He strolled out of the kitchen, no longer focused on dinner. Talking with Belladonna always made his stomach roil.

“Rene, honey pie, y’wan’ talk wit’ Papa?” he heard her murmur in the background, ignoring his complaints and shoving his son between them, as she had time and time again. “Here,” she announced, and he heard the welcome, curious chirp of his son’s voice that warmed him despite the aggravation the boy’s mother always heaped on his head.

“When y’comin’ home, Papa?”

“When y’wan’ Papa t’come home?” he offered, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. Rene was the apple of his eye, and the only decent thing his mother ever offered to the world.

“Wanna see ya today, Papa!”

“Late fuh that, mon fils.” He peered out the window and saw the sky already turning a rich navy and revealing a handful of stars at a time. “Wanna see ya this weekend.”

“Papa wants t’come over, Maman,” he insisted, and Remy could swear he could see his son’s little face screwing up thoughtfully before putting the question to Bella. His chest swelled with pride as he mused at his son’s mannerisms that reminded him so much of Jean-Luc that it hurt.

He relinquished the phone to Bella again and scampered off, presumably to bed. “Just cashed de cheque,” she informed him. “Late wit’ it, non?”

“De hell you say,” Remy growled. “Put it in de mail on Wednesday, just like every Wednesday. Ya wan’ blame Remy fuh not comin’ t’see Rene on the weekend when y’can’t seem ta remember when y’gon’ be gone, y’can kiss Remy’s ass. Don’ tell Remy he didn’ send de cheque.” There was an exasperated pause at the other end of the line. Remy could hear her gnawing her bottom lip.

“Just be sure ya don’ forget.”

“Ain’t gonna forget, Bella. Seem t’have forgotten Remy’s payin’ ya t’keep our son as well as y’can, but dat means I’m also payin’ ya t’keep him away from me, when ya don’ let me see him. That ain’t fair, an’ it ain’t right.”

“Lot of things ain’t fair, Remy.”

“Rene’s gonna know his pere,” Remy stated flatly.

“Bonne nuit,” she drawled, and she hung up. Remy flung the phone handset onto the couch and gave the coffee table a savage kick.

~0~

Logan sweated beneath his thick, fleece-lined denim jacket, making a face at the steamy, chemical smell of the dry cleaning shop on Fifth Street. Idly he watched the racks of clothes spin, plastic sheathes rustling beneath the drone of patrons chatting by the counter and the hiss of irons in the back.

He hated bachelor parties, but at least he’d cut a dash.

He handed the girl at the counter his tag, returning her faint smile before she dashed off to retrieve his shirts and slacks. He’d hated Silver’s insistence that he stand for hours in the men’s section of department stores that didn’t have so much as a pair of sweat socks or character tees in sight. He endured the press of shirts still on their hangers that she’d hold up to him in front of the mirrored pillars, tsking over which color best suited his skin tone. He hated the treks to the changing room even more, chafing at her cries to march out in his stocking feet, trussed up like a turkey, so she could see how they looked on him. Logan preferred his way better: Hold it up. See if it fits. Take it home.

To her credit, at least she gave him a semblance of a choice. Walter rode roughshod over everything from his wardrobe to the groceries that stocked his shelves. Animal magnetism drew him to the charismatic physicist, even though it taken weeks for either of them to make the first move. He’d been relieved, for a while, to remove himself from his temperamental partner’s controlling ways and erratic mood swings. Logan credited himself with being gruff, and a man of few words, but he was also calm, consistent, and valued loyalty.

The final straw had been an argument that found him shouting himself hoarse until Walt slammed him back against the kitchen wall, hard enough to knock out a chunk of plaster and make Logan see stars. He staggered to his feet, brushing his hands from him and ignoring the larger, blond man’s tears and pleas that he would never do it again as he stalked back to their bedroom. His bags were packed within minutes; he signed off the lease and had his name removed from their mailbox.

By contrast, Silver Fox was outgoing, bubbly, and lavished him with attention that occasionally became stifling, but she, too, was consistent, a welcome contrast to Walter Langkowski. She was a giving bed partner, despite an annoying habit of hogging the covers and cramming her backside into his lower back when they slept. Silver, like Scott’s fiancée, Aleytys, was a complete “girl,” through and through. Soft curves, rippling black hair that skimmed her back, and she was delicate, feeding his urge to protect her.

He couldn’t, or wouldn’t offer her forever. Two years found them equally frustrated, unengaged, and speaking in monosyllables over breakfast. She ended the charade by calling him from work and letting him know that she was moving out. She took their dog, Cupcake, and unfortunately left him with the closet full of clothes he never wanted in the first place, hardly a fair trade.

In an odd way, he was thankful. He dreaded shopping, and he wasn’t looking forward to Scott’s party above and beyond having a good, stiff drink.

The wire hangers dug into the thick pads of his fingers as he swept out of the store and headed to the liquor store to purchase his favorite brand of cigars.

Summers told him the other day he wouldn’t have to bring his own beer, which was a plus. He changed twenty dollars to singles at the bank for the sake of courtesy; knowing Scott’s knucklehead brother, Alex, he could count on at least two, maybe three exotic dancers knocking at their door. It didn’t phase him, but it also didn’t really _matter_ to him.

An hour later, Logan was clad in a black guayabera shirt, long-sleeved and embroidered in black thread with knife-sharp pintucking. The shirt was one of the rare purchases that Silver talked him into that he liked, so he kept it in pristine condition, entrusting its care to the dry cleaners instead of ironing it himself. Plain, crisp charcoal slacks and a pair of black leather shoes were topped with a brown bomber jacket he’d forgotten he even had; he tucked one of his Cubans into the lining’s pocket along with his wallet. Logan raked his fingers through his hair, giving himself a final appraisal and kicking himself one last time for promising to attend. Scott Summers was only younger than Logan by about ten years, but he ran with a young crowd and was attempting to keep up with his even younger bride.

His knuckles sounded hollow on the heavy oak door, and he saw a lanky, blond form wavering its way over through the smoked glass panes before Alex’s voice approached him.

“Hey, stranger, get in here! ‘Bout time!” His palm smarted with his clap of a handshake, and Logan grinned as he was practically yanked inside. “What took you so long?”

“Had ta do my nails,” he grinned.

“Have a drink, take a load off.” He raised his voice over the clamor from the living room as they made their way through the foyer.

“Logan’s here,” Alex bellowed over the din. The forty-two inch plasma screen set was pumping the roars from the crowd at the Jets game through huge speakers. Scott looked up from uncapping a bottle of beer and grinned. He came out from behind the corner and gave him the same treatment Alex had, his handshake firm and accompanied by a gruff slap on the back. He even handed him the fresh beer.

“Nice set-up,” Logan approved, nodding to the crowd. A few familiar faces nodded at him as he took up the last place on the wraparound sofa and set his bottle in the cup rest. “How’re things at the school?”

“Awesome. But I’m going on sabbatical next month. Got a dig in Peru.” Alex was one of the youngest professors at NYU, and geology was his first love. To Logan, rocks were rocks. But Alex managed to be the life of the party due to his taste for adventure, including things like photographing sharks in cages, bungee jumping, rock climbing (of course), and skiing K12 slopes. More to the point, his girlfriend, Lorna, kept up with him no matter what his obsession of the week. She was nice enough, Logan mused, but shock mingled with stifled laughter the first time he’d seen her chartreuse green hair. But Lorna was a pistol.

“Bring yer bug repellent and sunscreen, bub.” Alex chuckled.

“Wanna come with?”

“Nah. Yer brother and I are about ta list that property on Graymalkin Lane. Then I’m workin’ on a remodel and installing a spa tub in a condo. I’m booked.”

“Your loss,” Alex shrugged.

“I’m gonna get my hands just as dirty,” Logan shrugged back, tipping back his beer.

To the Summers’ brothers’ credit, the food was pretty good. Logan tore into a decent barbecued pork rib and added his voice to the chorus of men bellowing at the screen over a fumbled pass. He’d no sooner chucked his paper plate and rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink when the doorbell rang; his sharp hearing picked up the sounds of feminine giggles from the other side.

The entertainment had arrived.

Logan heard him beckoning to his new guests, “Come in, ladies!” that was followed by high heels clicking over the hard wood floor in the foyer. Two women peered inside the house, clad in knee-length trenchcoats and flowery perfume that stung Logan’s nostrils. Annoyance and resignation rippled up his spine.

They were certainly beautiful. The taller, dark-haired one winked at him as they moved back toward the guest bedroom to get ready. He gave her a lazy smile and finished his beer, reaching for another one as Scott sidled up. Their chaperone for the night stood in the corner, fiddling with a portable strobe light and unbuckling a case.

“Remember about what I said before about posting bail?”

“Psshht!” Logan hissed between his teeth. Scott laughed. Their boom box was immediately connected to the speakers in the living room. There was a faint rustling in the hall as the women returned to the front of the house. Logan gave them a long once-over of male appreciation.

They were purposely a study in contrasts, one naughty, one nice. The dark-haired one was attired in black leather with the prerequisite metallic accessories and props, including a black leather riding crop. Fishnets made her legs look miles long, and she smiled through sultry red lips. Her partner was more petite and had shoulder-length auburn hair, choosing a white two-piece teddy with lace trim and gartered white hose. She was more voluptuous, but, Logan considered, the leggy one had a fantastic ass. High, full, round and spankable.

“How are you folks doing tonight?” boomed their chaperone. “My name’s Guido, and I’ll be running the night’s festivities. We’re all adults here, but I’m gonna run down the rules. These lovely ladies can touch you, but don’t take any liberties. I’ll make change for large bills. We’re here for an hour. Body shots can be purchased for three dollars.”

“That’s inflation,” Alex muttered, “and highway robbery.”

“Say hello to Sara and Callisto,” he announced, introducing them before he clicked on the music. Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrrty” filled the room, barely audible over whistles and catcalls. 

“Who’s the lucky groom?” Callisto purred. Alex yanked his brother forward as their friend, Bobby, pulled up a kitchen chair and slid it into the center of the room. Scott was casually shoved into it as Callisto stepped forward, crop in hand and a mischievous gleam in her dark eyes.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked him in a husky tone.

“New Year’s Day,” he admitted slyly.

“Uh-uh, handsome. It just came today.” She pivoted and dipped, bending over with her legs spread wide, leaving him face-to face with her toned ass. She wiggled it before his eyes and peeked back at him through her legs before rising up slowly, giving everyone in the room an ample view of her cleavage. In another sinuous moment she glided down to his lap, her long black hair slicking over his shoulder in a glossy spill. The lap dance had begun. Scott flushed red as a beet; her hair tickled his lips and obscured his smile.

Logan skipped the body shots. He skipped the oil. He skipped the lap dances, but that didn’t stop the flirtations or the teasing. More of that cloying perfume tickled his nose. Creamy flesh gleamed beneath the lights, tempting him, but he kept his seat, only rising to refresh his beer.

He didn’t see anything he wanted to order on the menu.

 

~0~

Harry’s was packed to the rafters. The interior was dark and stuffy, more than Alex’s living room, and Logan nearly hated to part from the brisk night air as he exited the second of two cabs that brought them downtown. He only felt a faint buzz despite relieving Scott of a six-pack and a half, but his first priority was to shrug off his jacket and pee.

On his way back from the men’s, he scanned the pool room for an empty table. Finding them all occupied, he headed for the bar, deciding to move on to something stronger. He slapped down a five-spot and the bartender slapped down a shot of tequila. He didn’t care about mixing tonight. Scott’s raucous laughter followed him to the bar, along with “war stories” from the party guests that lacked discretion and all semblance of sympathy.

“You’re not escaping that easily,” Scott informed him easily.

“I ain’t runnin’. Still gotta kick yer ass at pool, once we get a table,” Logan replied.

“Eh.”

“Sissy.” Logan scanned the tables again, and this time found one empty. “Grab a cue when ya grow a big enough pair, Summers!” He downed the shot and bit heartily into the wedge of lemon before chucking it into the cocktail napkin.

“You’re on. Still thirsty.” Logan sneered and waved him away, his back already turned.

He reached the table and fed quarters into the slot just as a familiar voice halted him.

“I wuz just ‘bout t’play.”

“Been waitin’ fer a table,” Logan murmured dryly as he reached for a cue.

“Play ya?”

“Why not?” Then he turned to face his new opponent and felt a slow smile creep over his lips. “Hey.” The tall Cajun looked up from retrieving the balls and dropping them into the rack. Red-on-black eyes twinkled with recognition, crinkling at the corners.

“Logan, right, homme?”

“Remy?” The young man nodded and grinned.

“Didn’t know dis one of yer haunts, mec.”

“They might as well carve my name in one of the stools,” Logan admitted. He beckoned to him to take the first break. The balls clacked apart sharply as he scattered them across the green felt. Two striped balls rolled into the left corner pocket.

“Not to shabby.”

“De table likes Remy,” he offered. He focused more on Logan than he did his next shot. “Come here wit’ anyone?”

“Yep. Stag party.” He motioned to the bar, pointing out the man with brown hair wearing a dark rugby sweater. “That’s the lucky man over there.”

“Dead man walking,” Remy huffed. Logan cocked a shaggy brow at him. “Tell him Remy wishes ‘im well.” He chalked his cue and blew off the excess blue dust.

“Sure. He’ll believe that when ya put it that way, bub.”

“Marriage ain’ Remy’s cup o’ tea.”

“Eh. Got it.” Remy scratched in the center pocket. Logan lined up a sweet shot and let it fly with a resounding crack. “I ain’t gonna argue with it, either.”

“Ever tied de knot?”

“Nope. Never occurred ta me ta take that plunge.”

“Never asked, or nevah thought ‘bout it?”

“Never planned on it. Sharin’ a key an’ sharin’ a last name ain’t always the same thing. My last girl wasn’t that patient.” Remy took a thoughtful sip of his beer. Logan went out on a limb. “Last relationship before that was a different ball of wax. I had ta leave.” Remy made a funny sound in his throat, frowning slightly at the Logan’s grave look.

“Dey hurt ya?”

“Yeah.” He corrected himself. “They tried.” The yellow ball rolled neatly into the pocket. “Ya don’t hafta knock me in the head to get the message that somethin’ ain’t working. That’s about what it took fer me ta pack my stuff.”

“Shit,” Remy muttered under his breath. “M’sorry t’head dat, homme.”

“I’m here ta talk about it. That’s all that matters. I moved on.” Logan eyed the remaining balls and judged the angle. None of them looked good. “Ya finished workin’ on that car ya mentioned?”

“Not yet.” Even so, Remy puffed up with pride. “Almost a shame t’see it finished once we done.”

“That ain’t how I feel about finishing a house. The demo always goes fine. It’s finding all the stuff that’s wrong with the house that’s a bitch. Termites, plumbing, faulty wiring, bad roof…anything that can go wrong, will go wrong when yer in the middle of a job.”

“Ya enjoy it?”

“I live it, breathe it, and eat it.” Remy chuckled.

“Den Remy call you when he buy a house that needs fixin’.”

“I’m yer man.” The words slipped through his lips before he could stop them. Remy gave him a quizzical look that was full of interest. He was dressed casually, but the grubby coveralls were long gone this time. His jaw was smoothly shaved, but like Logan, his follicles threatened to give way to five o’clock shadow any minute. His golden skin was otherwise smooth. His frame was long and lean, yet tautly muscled. He wore a charcoal gray sweater with a horizontal black stripe that complemented his dark, snug jeans. Clean black sneakers shod his feet, and his auburn hair was longer than Logan first estimated it in the diner, waving back from a slightly high forehead. His cheekbones were high and sharp, and he quirked arched, tapered brows. Then there were those eyes. Those intense, captivating eyes…it was also taking every ounce of control Logan had not to look at his mouth.

His fingers were slim with work-roughened knuckles, but his nails were short, clean and free of engine grease. He was damned handsome, easily drawing the glances of several women when he strolled through the door.

He looked like a man who trailed broken hearts in his wake. Logan’s mouth went dry. He craved another shot.

Remy read his mind. “Let Remy buy ya a round.”

“Sauza,” Logan replied, not bothering to decline.

“Sure, mec.” Remy took his last shot, and scratched the eight-ball. Logan grinned. “Rack ‘em up!” Logan did as he bade him, looking up from the worn vinyl triangle briefly to watch him walk away. He felt a tingling flush and then shook himself.

Alex approached nearly an hour later, tapping him right after finishing the game. Remy had beaten him six out of ten rounds and was just chalking up again when he saw the lanky blond, looking flushed like he had a few.

“We’re gearing up to hit the next bar.”

“I’m pretty happy here.”

“We were all gonna call a cab; might save you the trouble.”

“My fingers ain’t broken. I can call my own cab,” Logan explained with a shrug. His eyes didn’t brook any argument. Alex had the strangest feeling he’d interrupted something private, even though the bar was crowded. Logan’s acquaintance moved forward to shake his hand.

“Name’s Remy.”

“Alex.” His eyes unsettled him, and Alex prepared to go.

“I’ll let Scott know you’re gonna hang here.”

“Suits me. Get him home safe,” Logan growled. “He ain’t gonna be in any shape ta pick up a hammer if ya get him anymore shitfaced than he is!”

“You guys haven’t seen shitfaced,” Alex promised. Remy chuckled goodnaturedly.

“Tell ‘im congrats,” Remy called after him.

“Yeah. Later!” Alex rushed off, weaving through the crowd. Logan sighed.

“He wuz right. Did’n hafta stay if it wuz easier t’go wit’ ‘im.”

“Ya know my fingers ain’t broken after playing enough rounds with me,” Logan pointed out. His chiseled lips curled as he cocked one brow.

“Might hafta prove it t’dis Cajun, den. Unless y’been hustlin’ Remy all did time?”

“Rack ‘em up.”

Logan was as good as his word. He beat Remy the next four out of six games before Harry announced last call. The music from the second floor barely made it down to the main lounge. Some of the patrons enjoyed the jukebox opposite the bar. Logan moved away briefly, excusing himself to peer at its selections. His eyes landed on a song he hadn’t heard in ages but suddenly craved.

BB and Lucille wailed that the thrill was gone, this rendition of it made smokier by Tracy Chapman’s throaty alto. Several sets of eyes looked up in surprise at his choice, but heads bobbed and foots tapped in the easy rhythm. Remy once again looked thoughtful.

“Always loved dis one.” He took another sip of his last beer. “Remy’s ex hate dis kinda music.” It took him back, way back. He wore the original song out whenever he played his old 35’s.

“Blues?”

“Oui. Ain’ de only t’ing we didn’ see eye t’eye on.”

“I like the classics. This is definitely one of ‘em.” 

“Bella thought she married somebody else.” He leaned his backside against the edge of the table as Logan aimed, enjoying the grip of his large, strong hands on the cue, the solid arc of his body over the game. “Sure as hell wasn’t Remy.”

The music overhead came to an abrupt stop. The final notes of the song on the jukebox faded away, and to Logan’s disappointment, Harry called closing time. He collected his jacket and reached for his cell. “Need a ride?”

“Non. Live down de street. M’own two feet’ll get me dere.”

Logan grunted. “Fine with me. Stay safe. G’night, Remy.”

“G’night, mon ami.” This time Remy treated himself to the sight of Logan’s retreating back, wondering if, or even when he’d see him again. His time with the gruff loner passed quickly and pleasurably. He carried thoughts of him home.

 

~0~

“Gon’ be a while before I lock up,” Philippe informed Remy the following evening. Remy was just wiping his hands on a grubby towel and shucking his coveralls. Remy had rode in with his uncle to work that morning to save gas, earning himself a lecture. Remy was always leaner in the pocket after sending Bella her checks, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear any more complaints.

“Ain’ got anywhere I gotta be, Oncle.”

“Print me a slip,” he barked on his way back to the office. “Need the totals from the credit cards and the cash box.” Remy pushed the settle button on the credit card scanner and watched it print up a neat slip. He turned his head toward the front of the shop as he heard the ding of the door’s bell. “We closin’ up!” he called out.

“Hey! Sorry. Just wanted ta pick up some car mats I saw in here the last time I came in. Ya didn’t have the ‘Closed’ sign on the door,” reasoned a deep, rumbly voice. His tone was slightly distracted. Remy closed the register drawer again and came out from behind the counter.

“Why don’ ya come on back tomorrow…oh. Hey.” Logan tore his gaze from a display of gearshift covers and peered up at him. He watched Remy’s face light up briefly before he repeated himself. “We gon’ close in a minute.”

“Can’t ring me up if I can find what I was plannin’ t’buy, like, now?”

“Fine. Ain’ totaled up de drawer yet. Shake a leg!” Logan chuckled and Remy followed him toward the back. He picked up the gray mats and handed him to Remy easily. “Looks like ya made it in ta work after last night.”

“Hangover let up after ten.”

“Hangovers ain’t much of a problem fer me.”

“Even after de tequila ya wuz throwin’ back like it wuz water? Merde!” he swore in a huff. He rang up the mats with deft fingers; the mechanical noises drifted back to Philippe, who looked mildly indignant as he emerged from the back.

“T’ought it wuz time t’close up,” he reminded his nephew.

“One last t’ing,” he apologized. Logan looked from the auto body mechanic to his uncle, noticing a faint family resemblance in the way they stood and smiled. Philippe had darker hair and olive skin, and he was a bit more portly. He smiled with teeth that were just as straight, though, and his hands rested on his hips. “Ya said it gon’ be a while before yer ready t’go.”

“I know dat, Remy. Still need a total on de drawer so I can lock up de safe.” Logan was backing away from the counter, sales receipt in hand.

“Can’t wait t’be off m’feet,” Remy groaned, rubbing his nape. “Long day,” he explained to Logan. Logan’s eyes were soft and knowing.

“I ain’t gonna argue.” His own muscles burned. He’d scarcely had time to freshen up after leaving the site and tossing Summers the keys.

“M’gonna head to de bank an’ make de deposit on de way,” Philippe reminded him. Remy’s face was resigned. Philippe grinned. “Maybe dat’ll teach Remy t’fill up de tank.”

“Ya didn’t drive here?” Logan inquired.

“Non.”

“Then c’mon. Ya don’t need him fer anything else?” Logan pressed, facing Philippe.

“Uh-uh. Take ‘im!” He made “good riddance” motions with his hands, waving them both out of the shop. Logan waved to him on their way out, but he was already back in his office. Remy sighed and shrugged into his jacket once he removed it from the peg.

“I live across town from here,” Remy warned.

“I know that. By Harry’s.” They climbed into Logan’s truck. He was as good as his word. “LuLu” was a classic. The upholstery was slightly cracked, but otherwise it was in good condition. Logan maneuvered his way through rush hour traffic.

“Been up since five this morning,” Logan explained. “Worked through lunch, but we got everything done that needed to be done.”

“I’m ready t’eat, too,” Remy agreed. “Got leftover barbecue t’warm up.” Logan looked envious.

“Sounds good. Sounds real good.”

“Remy got plenty. C’mon an’ eat.”

“Don’t wanna impose an’ invite myself.”

“Remy’s givin’ ya an invite,” he shrugged, and their eyes met over the console. “So come an’ eat.” Logan chuckled low in his throat before he turned his attention back to the road.


	3. Bedroom Faces and Dishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chance meeting. An encounter. The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the "normal" aspect of this fic stops. Originally, when I started it with my friend Sisterwine, it was just meant to be an angsty, sexy-ish AU, no powers, and about five chapters long. Didn't work out that way. Gradually, Logan and Remy's mutantcy reared up, my muses acted like they were drunk, people kept saying "hey, add another chapter, don't stop there!" and it just... grew out of control. If you asked me point-blank "so, what is this story about?" I'll scratch my head, get this blank look in my eye, and drone, "uuuhhhhhhh..." until drool leaks out of the corner of my mouth.
> 
> If you continue reading, that will make me happy. If you leave feedback, I might be inclined to post more of my LoMy stories here and EVEN write a little sequel tickling my imagination.

“Make y’self at home, mec,” Remy offered casually, pushing open the sticky front door to his apartment with some effort and ushering Logan inside. “Ya said ya wuz hungry, didn’tcha, homme?”

“Don’t put yerself out on my account, Rem,” Logan muttered, allowing his hooded dark eyes to roam the spare living room with interest. Remy’s home fit him, somehow. The overstuffed, brown denim sofa was battered and slightly threadbare, but looked comfortable. Logan could tell that most of Remy’s early paychecks went into the wide-screen TV and a sleek, black leather LazyBoy recliner in the corner. Remy flicked on a plain, brass floor lamp with a creased linen shade, bathing the room with soft light.

Vintage car magazines and issues of _Low Rider_ were fanned across the coffee table that was slightly gray, as though he hadn’t the chance to dust lately, but there were no rings left over from lack of a coaster. A large, black-and-white MC Escher print hung framed above the sofa, and the room was free of knick knacks, save for a model of a classic blue and white Chevy with fins on top of the book shelf.

“Said I’d feed ya. Siddown, take a load off,” Remy nagged, flicking a smile that reached those compelling eyes over his shoulder. Remy stripped off his denim jacket and hung it from the back of one of his dinette set’s wicker-backed chairs and loped to the fridge. He hauled out a large, tin-foil covered bowl and rummaged in the cabinets for a plate. Logan heard the clink of crockery as he leaned down to get a better look at the model car.

“I love these old cars. My old man used ta have a whole mess of ‘em, painted and lined up along the mantelpiece when I was a kid.”

“Passed down his addiction, eh?”

“Ain’t broke the habit yet,” Logan agreed. “How long’ve ya lived here?”

“Couple years.” Logan listened to the crinkle of foil and another faint clink as Remy loaded a plate with leftovers and punched the power button of his microwave. After a minute of the low thrum, a rich, delectable smell of roasted meat filled the tiny kitchen. 

“Whatcha fixin’?”

“Barbecued beef ribs. Made ‘em last night. Always betta de second day.” Logan hung his own jacket on a peg on the wall just off the corridor, piquing his curiosity as to whether the bedroom was that way. He dismissed it, mentally kicking himself.

It didn’t help that Remy tempted him, moving easily about his kitchen, the long, lean lines of his body emphasized every time he reached up into a cabinet. Faded denim jeans were worn to velvety softness and had fraying holes here and there, but they still looked made for him, encasing rippling, fluid muscle. His tee shirt was spanking clean, a deep scarlet that complimented his burnished complexion and auburn hair. He looked comfortable in his skin.

Logan plunked himself back into a chair just in time for Remy to set down two plates of ribs, each including a hunk of cornbread on the side and a portion of navy beans. He grunted his approval. “Not too shabby, Rem.”

“Man’s gotta eat. M’daddy taught me a thang ‘r two in the kitchen. Had to grab those ribs fast ‘fo’ dey disappeared.” Logan needed no further urging, and he tucked into his impromptu dinner with relish as Remy fetched two glasses from the cupboard. The beers they’d had at Harry’s left Remy craving something sweet, and the barbecue sauce with its healthy jolt of brown sugar and honey fit the bill. He poured two glasses of Sprite from a half-empty two-liter bottle, and Logan grinned at the Hooters trademark owl logo on the side of his. Remy sipped his from one emblazoned with gold letters announcing he’d been to Caesar’s Palace.

Remy stole looks at Logan from across the table, watching him tear at a rib with his teeth, which were large, even, and brilliantly white (sans the sauce). His canines were slightly prominent, but didn’t detract from his smile. He liked the wicked, rakish look it gave him, almost like his childhood visions of the Boogey Man.

It struck him as funny that he didn’t find Logan scary at all.

Logan was distracting him even more at the moment, peering down at the sauce smeared over his thumb. “Mmmm,” he rumbled, drawing it into his mouth and sucking it off with satisfaction. Remy smirked; he liked to see someone enjoying good food.

“Take it y’like it then, homme?”

“That’s what I call a rib. Damn.” Logan tore off the corner of his cornbread and mopped it through the sauce. “This is yer best kept secret.”

“Naw. Got a whole _helluva_ lot mo’ secrets ‘n dat, mon ami.” Logan huffed, intrigued.

“So ya live alone?”

“Struck out ta live by maself when m’daddy passed away. He wuz a good man. Ain’t had much t’do wit’ Momma, or Bella since I left home.”

“She an old flame o’yers?”

“If ya wan’ call it dat.” He downed the rest of his soda in one gulp, and Logan watched his throat work before he thunked down his Caesar’s glass. “Didn’t wan’ de same t’ings, I guess.”

“Guess not.” They continued eating in relative silence, and Logan continued taking in his surroundings. Small sounds from the street leaked inside through the small kitchen window, badly in need of weather stripping, and they were underscored by the low ticking of the wall clock. “Makes me feel nosey, just askin’,” Logan admitted, scrubbing his fingers clean on the paper towel Remy offered as a napkin and throwing it atop the short stack of ribs that had been picked clean.

“Ask what y’wan’, mec,” Remy drawled. “Remy’s an open book.”

“Ya said ya were close with yer dad. What’d he die of?”

“Prostate. Passed away, two days befo’ his birthday. Woulda been sixty-two, three weeks ago. Poppa was always in m’corner,” he mused. “Always understood me, an’ he wanted t’make sure I could get by, so he taught me a trade I could take wit’ me even after he wuz gone from this earth.” Remy got up to clear away their plates, chucking the rib bones into the trash and rinsing the items before loading them into a mostly full dishwasher. “Poppa knew what wuz in Remy’s heart, an’ he didn’t throw any stones.” He tucked a dispersible dish soap tablet into the slot and capped it before clapping the door shut. Whooshing sounds nearly drowned out his voice before he waved Logan into the living room. He followed easily enough and made himself comfortable on the couch while Remy busied himself, tidying up items that hadn’t made it all the way to his bedroom or the laundry hamper. He shucked his work boots and dropped them beside the recliner, and Logan thought he would take up what looked like the best seat in the house.

He was wrong. And glad, when Remy seated himself next to Logan and grabbed the remote. “Got a preference?”

“Nope.”

“DVR’ed a Nicks game,” he suggested.

“That’s fine,” he replied, but his eyes still wandered over Remy, watching his movements. “Yer pop a Nicks’ fan?”

“From the cradle to de grave,” Remy chuckled. “Momma hated it when he lit up in de den t’watch. Tol’ Poppa he wuz a bad influence.”

“Was he?”

“I ain’t de one t’ask,” he retorted back, smirking as he tugged out a crumpled pack of Camels from his pants pocket. “Only influence he had on me wuz what brand.”

“My kinda pop,” Logan agreed. Remy’s eyes were drowsy, and he scrubbed at his face, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, and Logan noticed the faint smudges beneath them. The kid looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for more nights than he wanted to guess. He suddenly felt guilty for keeping him up, but he was loathe to leave his perch.

The faint pheromones of Remy’s hair and skin tickled Logan’s nostrils. He declined the cigarette Remy offered him, and then felt guilty again when Remy tossed the pack, unopened, onto the coffee table.

“I ain’t stoppin’ ya, Rem.”

“Don’ like havin’ a smoke unless I’ve got comp’ny.”

“I don’t wanna keep ya from it, if ya feel like it. Shit…ya look done in, Rem. Ya want me ta go?” Logan was already halfway up from the couch, thankful that he hadn’t removed his shoes.

Remy’s slender hand gripped his wrist before he could straighten himself and reach for his jacket. Logan felt wiry strength in the long, tapered fingers, so accustomed to handling tools and taking things apart. Logan’s mouth went dry at the feel of his warm skin, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

“Non. I don’ wan’ ya t’go anywhere, homme,” he husked. All of Logan’s senses went on high alert, and he tensed beneath Remy’s grip, hearing the thundering of Remy’s pulse even as his own skipped. Logan’s coffee brown eyes raked over Remy, finally landing on his hand braceletting his wrist, before he allowed himself to look him in the eye. 

Deeply, into those captivating eyes. Heat rushed through Logan’s core as he weighed the likelihood of leaving him now. The television droned on in the background, the widescreen shamefully ignored as Logan slowly sank back down to the sofa.

“Kid,” Logan rasped, but his voice wouldn’t work.

“Stay,” was the only reply Remy gave him before he punched the remote with his other hand, dousing the power with a sharp click and tossing it onto the stack of magazines. Logan couldn’t remember who made the first move.

All that he remembered was that the young Cajun with the face of a Renaissance angel kissed the breath out of him, his fingers fisting themselves roughly in his flannel shirt. His mouth was hot and greedy as it crashed down against his, practically bruising him, and he responded in kind, groaning with satisfaction. Remy slanted his mouth over his, and his palm crept up to cup Logan’s jaw, his thumb stroking the crest of his cheekbone. As he caressed the column of Logan’s throat, he felt the thickly corded veins jump at his touch.

He’d unleashed a maelstrom. Remy broke the kiss, floored by the hunger and unquenched need in Logan’s gaze. He sucked in ragged breaths as Remy staggered off of the couch, glad to see that he’d been just as strongly affected, but unwilling to let him get away with giving him a mere taste.

“Gotta lock up, cher,” he explained, turning his back on the sight of his burly guest looking thoroughly rumpled and aroused. He hadn’t heard Logan’s footsteps approaching him as he turned the lock and secured the deadbolts.

He felt him instead, warm, sultry breath bathing the side of his neck as Logan’s hands snaked around Remy’s narrow waist, tugging up the hem of his shirt and stroking his smooth, taut flesh.

“Ya don’t know what ya’ve done t’me, kid,” he growled, sending a sweet chill up Remy’s spine as he nipped his earlobe, followed by a rougher bite of his neck. Remy cursed in a mixture of pain and pleasure as Logan licked the superficial wound he made, and he felt the crotch of his denims become two sizes too snug. His apartment was warm enough, but he felt a rush of cool air as Logan deftly yanked Remy’s shirt over his head and chucked it over his shoulder. His hands were impatient and demanding, wanting to know the textures and planes of Remy’s sculpted body, and they roamed over him as he continued his assault of Remy’s neck. Remy shuddered and emitted a low moan of yearning when Logan nipped a blazing path down his nape and back, scribbling blunt fingernails over it.

“Bedroom,” Remy cried, his voice strangled and husky. Logan was pressed firmly against his back, and he felt every muscle of his solid chest as his forearms, thickly cabled with muscle and covered in a fine mat of dark hair embraced him. He ground himself instinctively against his prize.

“Hurry,” Logan hissed, and Remy pried himself loose from Logan’s grip long enough to face him, kissing him again before leading the way. He tugged Logan after him from the living room and down the darkened hall, not bothering to extinguish the floor lamp. 

They stumbled into the master bedroom, and Logan cursed as he banged his hip against the laundry hamper. The last pink rays of the setting sun streaked across the sapphire sky, the faint light shining through the cotton curtains. Out of long habit, Remy kicked the bedroom door shut after them before Logan reached for him again, their lips meeting in a hungry fusion of need. Remy fell back against the door as Logan closed in on him, dominating him and plowing his thick-fingered, work-worn hands through Remy’s long, fine hair, tugging it back to expose his throat. He nipped a path from his mouth along his graceful jaw as Remy moaned endearments in two different dialects, neither of which Logan cared about at the moment. Remy tore at the hem of Logan’s shirt, prizing it free from the waistband of his jeans, but Logan wasn’t that patient. He tore it open, sending buttons flying across the hardwood floor and shrugging it off, following it shortly with his white cotton tank.

Logan was magnificent, his body a melody of rounded muscle and firm, tanned skin. More dark hair covered his chest generously and tapered down to a narrow trail that led below his waist. There wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him, for all that his frame was compact, broad, and that he possessed a hearty appetite. Remy stared his fill.

“Like what ya see, Cajun?” he murmured wryly, nudging off his shoes with his heel and kicking them into the corner. He stole another kiss from Remy before he could reply, kneading his nape and plundering his mouth. Before he could savor the taste of him, he ended it, backing away to pop open the button fly of his Levi’s. He let them fall and shucked his boxers, stepping neatly out of them before kicking those, too, into the corner with his shoes. His cock was rosy and tumescent, even in the dimness of the bedroom, nested in the dark curls. He stood unabashedly naked, and tugged Remy away from the door by the wrist, leading him to the bed. Remy’s world spun around as he was playfully shoved onto the mattress, landing on his butt with an “OOOF!”

“Shit…slow down, cher!”

“Shut up and help me, Rem,” he ordered slyly, again pressing him back until he collapsed onto his back. Logan savagely pried open Remy’s zipper with a low grunt and grasped the hems just above his ankles, yanking them off with a swish that almost pulled Remy from the mattress. He heard Logan chuckle in surprise above him as his erection bobbed free. 

“Commando?”

“Don’ like anyt’in holdin’ me back,” he drawled, then fell silent as Logan stalked closer, nudging Remy’s thighs apart and standing between them. Naked desire burned in the depths of his eyes, and his entire body thrummed with tension that even Remy felt in his gut. He cupped Remy’s jaw and tilted it up, kissing him deeply, neither of them sparing any quarter or allowing restraint. Tongues dueled, and their teeth inadvertently clicked together in their zeal. Logan flanked Remy’s thigh with his bent knee, kneeling onto the bed and urging him backward as they started a tangling, stumbling crawl up the mattress until Logan’s body lay flush against his, his flesh firm and hot. Remy nearly drowned in the tide of passion he experienced through their empathic link, despite the efforts he made at holding it back. He wanted to know Logan slowly, finding out his wants and needs the old-fashioned way. By touch. By feel. Hearing him grate out his name in his ear when he did something right.

Still, Logan’s emotions pulled at him, like undertow as he claimed him, fisting his fingers in Remy’s hair and jerking it back to expose his neck again, this time marking his flesh with his teeth. Remy bucked beneath him, pressing himself further into his heat and grinding against his hardness, creating delicious friction. Logan nipped his way down Remy’s collarbones, grazing his teeth along every nerve ending, then swirling his tongue over it to soothe and tease.

“Wan’ you real bad, cher,” Remy whispered, moaning as Logan’s hot breath steamed his flat, café au lait nipple. His body screamed for more of his touch, rough but thorough, the natural male tang of his skin wrapping around him as his mouth moved painstakingly over his pecs, his taut abdominal muscles, his tongue rimming his navel just to make him buck again.

“Ya’ve got me, kid,” he rumbled, and his eyes were hooded as he peered up at him to watch his face. His calloused fingers combed through the thatch of hair at the apex of his thighs, and his lips trailed along the crease where his hip and thigh met; Remy closed his eyes, waiting, hoping…

Logan’s mouth steamed the tip of his engorged penis as he lapped at the gleaming drop of precum slowly before engulfing him. Remy came undone. He made himself at home between his thighs, spreading them farther to give himself more room as he loved him with his tongue, his lips. Remy’s chest inflated sharply, heaving with each luxuriously slow bob of his head, and he tried to stifle the ragged sounds leaping from his mouth. Logan was having none of that.

“Wanna hear ya, Rem. Just let go,” he murmured, pinning him with his sultry gaze before resuming his consumption of him, pulling stronger cries from him this time as Remy dug his fingers into the coverlet beneath him, twisting it as his skin began to tingle.

“S’good…close…hot,” he chanted mindlessly. Logan was greedy, drinking up his flavors as his stubbled jaw scraped against the tender flesh of Remy thighs. He increased his pace, taking him to a new level awareness, allowing him to hear the wet sounds of his labors, the plunging of his flesh, finally wrapping his ankles across Logan’s broad, tapered back.

Remy came so hard that he nearly saw stars, his flesh engorged and tight, cramping as Logan drew him in firmly, milking him until he shouted his fulfillment to the ceiling. The mattress bounced as he writhed and bucked, nearly folding his body over Logan, clawing at his back to hold him there. Both of them were bathed in a faint sheen of sweat. He collapsed, every muscle wondrously limp, feeling replete. Logan caressed his legs tenderly, gifting his left knee with one last, brief kiss before unfolding his ankles from around his back. Before he could say anything, Remy mustered his remaining energy and reached over to the bedside table, yanking open the drawer with a jerk. He fumbled inside until he found a clear bottle of thick lubricant that looked new, with only a small amount missing.

“Bought it a long time ago,” he explained, even though Logan hadn’t asked.

“Been spendin’ a lot of time away from home?”

“Been spendin’ m’time alone,” he countered, boosting himself up on shaking arms and relaxing against the propped pillows. Logan crawled up onto the bed and eased himself between Remy’s legs once more, stroking lazy circles over his knee. Remy suppressed a chuckle; it tickled. Once his initial thirst for him was slaked, he was amazingly gentle, more than Remy would have suspected after their first meeting and judging by his outwardly rough manner. His fingers pried the bottle from Remy’s hand and he shook it up, flipping up the cap and squirting a generous rivulet along his fingers. Remy smiled up at him, watching his careful movements with interest. He closed it and set it aside, kneeling up on his haunches and slicking his fingers over the exposed valley of Remy’s buttocks, coating the crevice and easing his forefinger inside. Remy eased himself back down from his perch against the pillows, groaning at the press of his hand, probing him and stimulating the sensitive nerves. His body was relaxed, but his skin was still flushed and tingling with the sensations Logan was giving him. “C’mere, chere.” He collected the bottle as Logan obeyed, scooting closer and still kneeling, as Remy procured a bit more of the lotion and reached up to coat Logan’s member with it, feeling its thickness pulse within the snug ring of his fingers. It was Logan’s turn to gasp and curse under his breath, groaning for release.

“Rem…”

“Can’t wait no mo’, chere.” Remy righted himself long enough to kiss him again, dragging his tongue along the side of his neck and trapping his earlobe between his teeth, enflaming it. He suckled the morsel until Logan growled at him, neatly shoving him back and changing in an instant from calm and patient to desperate and driven. He hooked Remy’s knees neatly over his shoulders and pressed his fingers inside of him again, priming him deftly with long strokes before positioning himself at his entrance. He rubbed the plump head enticingly against him before pushing himself inside. His body spasmed beneath Remy’s tight, velvety grip on him, and his eyes drifted shut as ragged breaths were torn from him. He couldn’t fight the urge to move. His hips undulated slowly, testing the feel of his new partner and allowing his hands to roam over his pliant, sleek body.

“Oui, chere…mon Dieu! Nnnngh…” His body writhed, aching for more, craving his thrusts that couldn’t come fast enough, hard enough to stop the need for him, roaring through him like a freight train. Remy reached up to stroke him, his hands drifting and roaming over what parts of him that he could reach.

“Feels.So.Good.” Logan’s words were clipped, uttered fewer and further between as he reveled in the throbbing pulse of being sheathed in him, wanting to get closer…

…never wanting to let go.

A ragged, guttural cry clawed its way from his throat as he reached his peak, pulsing as he released, flooding his depths and making him jerk, hips pistoning those last few strokes as the tremors wracked his body. His climax rippled through him like a wave.

“Oh, God,” he panted, huffing and gripping Remy’s thighs as the aftershocks made him quiver. “God,” he repeated, making the silent covenant that at least if he died now, it would be in contented bliss. He nearly toppled over Remy, then remembered their awkward position and lowered Remy’s legs from around his shoulders, careful not to jar him as he disengaged himself. He ran his palm over his Remy’s stomach in a tender caress before stretching himself alongside him, waiting for his breathing to become less labored.

Remy didn’t fight it when Logan wrapped him within his embrace, tugging him until he lay across his solid, sweat-slicked chest, the top of his head tucked under his chin.

“Stay,” Remy murmured, his voice low and plaintive.

“Just as long as I don’t hafta move a friggin’ muscle. Cuz I can’t,” Logan agreed, and Remy heard the crack of his smile. Remy silently reached out with his empathy and basked in Logan’s sated afterglow, drinking in his peace and contentment like a nightcap. Their legs twined together and Remy’s fingers traced the muscle and sinew in Logan’s arm and shoulder. He leaned over and kissed Logan’s nipple; he grunted in response and tugged his head back down. Then he remembered how sensitive he was to touch and settled down.

“Will ya still respect Remy in de mornin’?” Logan barked out a hoarse laugh and craned his head to stare at the clock radio’s digital display.

“It’ll be morning in another hour. Ask me again then. If yer still up,” Logan amended. His blunt fingers combed through Remy’s hair and smoothed it back from his brow, and he felt his firm lips moving over his scalp, making him feel safe. He pushed down the pangs of uncertainty that he was treading on shaky ground, wondering if he could care for the roughnecked Canadian.

The drowsy languor flooding his limbs made up his mind to revisit the question in the morning. He counted Logan’s slowing breaths until he felt his own eyes drift shut, and he slept better than he could remember doing in a long time.

 

*

 

A low, rumbling snore stirred the hairs at his nape and woke him slightly before dawn.

At some time during the night, they’d changed positions, and Remy found himself spooned within Logan’s embrace, with Logan’s chest plastered against his back, enveloping him. Over the next sixty seconds, he let his eyes adjust and accustomed himself to the feel of him, tangled in the sheets. Logan’s arm spasmed and jerked him closer as his snore was cut-off mid-breath. He smacked his lips in his sleep, making Remy smother a chuckle.

He gently turned himself over, replacing Logan’s arm over him as he lay on his back, craning his face toward his lover. The character lines etched around his eyes and mouth softened and smoothed themselves out when he was in repose, and his face had a steadfast, rugged beauty that would last well into his golden years. His thick, bushy brows looked less imposing over his deeply set eyes. Even his familiar divot in his forehead was missing as he slumbered, only needing to rear itself when someone was bullshitting him.

Remy leaned in closer and nuzzled him, feeling the shift in him as he slowly regained wakefulness. His emotions were breaking through the surface of slumber, warm and sweet, devoid of tension. He hated to wake him up, but Remy needed to see his eyes.

They flickered open right before he emitted a leonine yawn, letting his joints pop and his hold on Remy momentarily tighten. 

Remy sent up a silent prayer that apprehension wouldn’t be the first thing to greet him.

They gradually regained their focus, flitting jerkily around the room as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. When they landed on Remy, his body relaxed, and lambent brown eyes drifted over his face, studying him and rewarding Remy with his Bedroom Face. A frisson of delight bloomed in Remy’s gut.

You could tell a lot about that first-thing-in-the-morning look on a person’s face on the proverbial “morning after” a night of sin. Averted eyes and tightened lips were the kiss of death; the dawning realization of mistakes made the night before had a way of making the whole body clamp up tighter than a pair of shrunken jeans. Logan’s eyes didn’t avoid his; they merely studied him with slow and easy languor, exploring the planes of his face and his smooth, golden skin. The room was still cast in a cool, blue glow from the approaching dawn, and a faint, sweet smile spread across Logan’s lips.

“Mornin’,” Logan offered. Gentle fingertips grazed the crest of his cheek and combed through Remy’s soft hair, and he felt himself being shifted until he was cradled in an embrace that reminded him dimly of a bear’s. His sleep-warmed skin and crisp hairs on his chest tickled Remy briefly. “How’d ya sleep?” No questions about what time it was; no furtive search around the bedroom for his clothes or mumbled excuses about having to be to work, even though, Remy reasoned, the hour was ungodly. He suppressed a chuckle as he remembered mornings past of driving off in the morning with his shirt on inside-out. No walks of shame or hangovers this time.

And if worse came to worse, Logan could drive himself home.

Remy leaned up into a kiss, not caring about his morning breath. Logan’s mouth was hot and firm, and he wanted to sink into it again and feel the pulse and flex of his body again, moving in that irresistible rhythm. He twined his arms around the broad, sturdy back and caressed the bumpy pearls of his spinal cord, kneading his flesh.

“Mornin’,” Remy replied into his mouth, and he was once again lost. Blood flow was restored to his limbs and every nerve ending in their bodies awoke, thrilling to the now-familiar contact. Remy took the lead this time and slowly explored the secrets of Logan’s body, revisiting the places that made him gasp. He writhed beneath him as his velvety tongue stroked him, teasing a path down his neck and trailing sweet havoc along his chest. His abdomen jumped at the mischievous nips before Remy engulfed him. He savored him, and for the first time in longer than Remy could remember, he allowed Logan into the aura of his empathy, sharing as well as taking in his emotions. As Logan divulged with him what felt pleasurable and exciting, the hint of Remy’s own arousal caressed him and drew him more deeply inside. Without realizing why, Logan rode out the sensations of his companion’s touch that was in perfect sync with his needs, and with each arch of his hips, pushing himself further into Remy’s luscious, damp heat, he stoked the Cajun’s own passion and his need to claim him. Logan’s solid thighs were splayed open, creating a nook for Remy to relax and work. His fingers were slicked in Logan’s own sweat as they stroked the crease where his thigh joined his hip and skimmed over his perineum tenderly, carefully cupping his sac before mouthing each one. He returned to the shaft, thrusting itself wantonly toward his mouth, and he traced the veins with his tongue until he once again took him inside. Logan’s pleasure enveloped him; he didn’t plead, he merely accepted what Remy had to give. His head was flung back against the downy pillow and he fisted his hands in it from the overwhelming thrill. Pressure throbbed within him; he was engorged and screaming for release, even though his lips could only moan. 

He sensed that Remy wanted him to lie back, without holding him yet. To let him take the lead. He struggled to maintain some semblance of control before he felt himself falling over the edge, joyously letting go…his release was powerful and chased away everything else. His thighs jerked and his abdomen rippled as he bucked, feeling Remy’s mouth swallow him again and again, his hands slicking over him to prolong his high and ease him down from it. His entire body went deliciously limp, and he shuddered when Remy gave the glistening tip of his member one final kiss.

He wanted to protest when he slid off of him and padded out of the room in the buff. His erection ebbed away as he craned his head off the pillows, leaning up onto one elbow. Remy had carefully withdrawn himself from their empathic rapport, leaving Logan alone with his feelings, and he felt slightly bereft, and rebuffed.

Remy came back, smiling at him from the doorway with a folded towel that he chucked on top of the hamper lid. He fumbled in the top drawer of his bureau and found himself a pair of boxers. “Kick back,” he suggested. “Ain’t gonna fall back t’sleep. Gonna brew up some coffee.”

“Ya normally an early riser?”

“Non. Remy like de snooze alarm as much as de next person,” he shrugged. “But if Remy don’ get up now, be likely t’stay in bed all day. Got t’ings t’take care of in de shop. Promised Oncle. Can’t break a promise.”

“Guess he’d have yer hide,” Logan grumbled, but Remy heard the smile in his voice, even when he turned his broad back to him while reaching for his own boxers and sliding them on. Remy admired the play of muscles beneath his skin and his tapered waist. Not surprisingly, Logan was well-proportioned, due in part to his rigorous physical labor and his compact frame. He wasn’t a man who neglected his lower body when he worked out, so his legs were as powerful as his chest, toned, sculpted and bulging, and he had an ass that made women do a double take. Remy didn’t find it too shabby, either.

“Oui, chere. G’wan, use de shower first; Remy gonna start breakfast.”

“Ya ain’t gotta trouble yerself, bub.” Logan’s efforts at being polite were dashed to bits by his growling stomach.

“I heard that,” Remy grinned. “Ain’t no trouble.” He waited for Logan to cross the room and gather up the towel before leading him to the bathroom.

“Shampoo’s already in dere, homme,” he informed him before nudging open the door and urging Logan inside, letting his hand linger on the slope of his upper arm. Reluctantly he head back into the kitchen, feeling Logan’s eyes on his back.

Minutes later, Remy was immersed in the scent of coffee and was enjoying the silky feel of biscuit dough beneath his knuckles as he kneaded it and prepared the counter with a dusting of flour to roll it out. Sausage links sizzled in the pan, and a carton of eggs sat on the counter, still unopened as he heated a second frying pan. Logan was quiet; all Remy heard down the hall was the spray of the water and the occasional groan as it soothed muscles knotted from sharing a bed during the night. He contemplated joining him, but he brushed the temptation aside.

It would be hard enough if they didn’t keep things on an even footing. So they’d had a good night. An amazing night. What did they have in common after the sheets grew cold?

Logan seemed like a proud man, and Remy had grown too used to guessing games and nursing his own wounded pride and broken heart. He longed to let him in, but he’d spent too long building up all those walls.

He just wasn’t ready.

The scent of steam and soap swept into the hallway and mingled with the cooking aromas drifting out from the kitchen as Logan stepped out, his body toweled mostly dry before he worked on his damp, unruly black waves. Remy enjoyed the view; his skin was rosy and burnished from the warm spray as he loped into the bedroom to dispose of the towel. He came back to the kitchen garbed in his white cotton tank and socks to stave off the faint morning chill. The heat from the kitchen kissed his skin and gave him a pleasant tingle.

“Yer makin’ me hungry. Ya said ya had coffee?” The question was unnecessary; his nose zeroed in on it as he rummaged through the same cupboard Remy had the night before for the cups. He chose a dark blue one this time with the name of Remy’s auto shop screened onto it in white letters and filled it with the fragrant brew, a woody French roast. He skipped the creamer laid out on the counter but added a healthy dash of sugar from the open box.

“Siddown, homme,” he offered. He dutifully took up the chair facing the stove so he could watch his host slide a pan of what looked like biscuits into the oven.

“I ain’t much of a cook.”

“Remy likes t’eat. Learnin’ t’cook made sense, non?”

“Oui,” Logan muttered over his coffee, and he shot Remy a look of mischief over the rim of his cup, cocking one of those shaggy brows. Remy chuckled and turned back to his roux in the skillet, pouring in milk and crumbling up bits of sausage into it. The eggs were ready in a few short whisks and flips of the spatula. He served them deftly onto two more mismatched plates. Logan smiled when he handed him a bottle of ketchup from the fridge. Remy dotted his own with green Tabasco sauce and tucked into it ravenously, not realizing how hungry he was until he ate the first bite.

“S’good,” Logan mumbled, forking up another bite.

“Don’ be shy.”

“Gonna head out ta meet Scott at eight. We’re finishing up with the appliances and the final inspection and appraisal today. I’m taking the weekend off fer some R&R.”

“Gettin’ ready t’finish detail paint on a mini truck. Gonna be airbrushed wit’ a mural tomorrow. Gonna be sweet.”

“Wouldn’t mind seein’ it when yer done.”

“Let Remy know if y’wan’ come see it,” he replied before he could stop himself. Damn it.

He’d presumed too much, and backed down from his promise. There was no easy escape. “Unless y’wan’ just see de car show itself. Two weeks from now.”

“That’ll work,” Logan shrugged, but he caught a change in Remy’s scent and voice. He suddenly seemed skittish and slightly restless. He fiddled with his coffee, stirring it just to hear the metal clink against the crockery. “Sure I ain’t keepin’ ya up?”

“Oui.” He got up again to check the oven and gave the gravy a stir with the spatula. 

Tension crept into Logan’s belly. He went back over the events of the night before, searching for clues of what he might have done wrong. It had been a while since he’d shared a bed with anyone, and even longer since that “anyone” turned out to be a man. He didn’t want to leave yet; reality waited for him as soon as he opened the front door and inhaled that first breath. In the confines of this tiny apartment, there was momentary peace. The why’s, who’s, what’s, when’s and where’s of his past were nowhere to be found, and he felt easy in his skin.

“Can’t read yer flamin’ mind, kid,” Logan murmured. “I know there’s somethin’ on it, so out with it.”

“Ya always dis chatty, chere?”

“It ain’t just the hunger setting in; ya already took care of that.” Logan expelled a gusty sigh and leaned back in his chair. “This ain’t somethin’ I make a habit out of, let’s be clear on that. One-nighters. Ain’t my style.”

“Remy calls it de ‘random encounter.’ Much betta ring t’it, non?”

“Uh-uh. Not really. It ain’t me.”

“I’d like t’t’ink, chere, dat y’knew what was in store when ya came here last night.”

Logan scowled and ran rough fingers through the hair of his nape, which was gradually gaining volume as it dried. “In some ways, yes. Just didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Then ya thought right,” Remy announced, as he flicked off the burner for the gravy and then set it aside. He slid an oven mitt onto his hand and extracted the Pyrex dish of biscuits, perfectly browned and high. He brought them to the table and set them on a trivet. Logan helped himself to one, and Remy held up the pan of gravy in silent invitation. Logan nodded, and he spooned a generous river over the split halves of flaky bread. “Remy stopped t’inkin’ ‘bout anytin’ beyond de ‘mornin’ after’ a long time ago. Ain’t no such t’ing as ‘happily ever after.’ Not in Remy’s vocabulary.”

“Those ain’t words I throw around, anyway. Ain’t gonna start now.” The gravy was savory, and he blew on it to avoid burning his mouth. “Sometimes ya’ve gotta settle for ‘the next day’ as a jumpin’ off point and go from there.” He combined the rest of the scraps of his eggs with the gravy and loaded his fork with it. “Or call it quits. But ya can’t make much of a call based on one night. At least I can’t.”

“Neh. Call it random, den move on.” Remy’s tone was cavalier, but his eyes told a different story.

“Yeah. Movin’ on’s bout what I do. Doesn’t mean I don’t look back.”

“Be betta if y’didn’.”

“Can’t get away from it.” Memories of dreams that kept his slumber restless, at best, twisted his lips.

“Y’ain’t runnin’ fast enough, chere.” The endearment puzzled him. He was still baffled when Remy refilled his coffee cup.

For someone whose words were chasing him out the door, his actions beckoned to him to stay right where he was. He still couldn’t read Remy’s mind.

He settled for clearing their empty plates before Remy could get up. “Go shower,” he suggested. “I can get this.”

“Don’ hafta.”

“No biggie.” He turned his back on the sight of Logan’s reaching for the dish soap. The clink of the plates followed him to the bathroom.

When he came out with his towel wrapped around his waist, Logan’s clothes were long gone, and the kitchen was spotless, as though he had never been there. Remy felt relieved, but he was dogged by a sense of loss as he dressed for the day.


	4. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the exes.
> 
> And Logan and Remy meet _again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is technically the last fluffy chapter. It gets a little weird going forward.

Remy paced outside the front porch, sucking hungry gulps of cigarette smoke into his lungs.

She was late. And she knew it. He was ready to kick over the large terra cotta pot holding several coleus plants.

Two weeks. She left him hanging two more weekends beyond when she’d promised to let him see Rene. First it was “Mon fils wanted t’go wit’ his oncle Julien t’the movies. Don’ deny ‘im dat, Remy. Rene’s got more family den you.”

Then it was “Promised Rene he could have a sleepover wit’ his friend from school. Can’t break a promise, cher.” Yet she’d happily make it look like Remy could. _Putain_.

The front yard was dry, the grass a faded green giving way to brown; she hadn’t watered it much since the last time he came. Patches of milkweed and clover overran the begonias he’d planted two years ago, choking them at the root. He sighed. It wasn’t his problem anymore.

Ten minutes ticked by, drifting into fifteen more when he checked the time on his cell. His leg muscles started to burn from standing there. The old brown Adirondack chair he’d left behind had since gone missing from the porch. Again, not his problem, but she never replaced it. He wasn’t about to dirty his good chinos sitting on the front stoop.

He was on his second cigarette when her tiny white Civic pulled up the gravel driveway. Her face was resigned, dominated by unhappy blue eyes as she jerked the parking brake into place. Some of Remy’s irritation lifted as he saw Rene’s head pop up over the edge of the front passenger seat as he craned it to see his father.

“Papa!” he cried over the creak of the rear door before he barreled out of the car as fast as his skinny legs would carry him.

“Dat’s m’boy! C’mere, chere!” Remy drawled, already kneeling for a hug that nearly bowled him over. He drank in the pleasant scent of his son’s hair and the warmth of his wiry young body, hugging him so hard his arms hurt. “Didja miss yer papa?”

“Oui! Maman said y’wuz comin’ today, Papa!” Belladonna tsked loudly from the driveway as she circled the car to shut the door dangling from its hinge. She juggled Rene’s backpack, her purse and two plastic sacks of groceries by their handles as she ascended the front walk.

“Can’t lend a hand?” she accused sourly. Remy grunted gently nudged Rene aside before taking his son’s backpack. “ _Merci_ ,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “Big help.”

“Had a long wait, Belle,” he reminded her on a low grumble while she fiddled with the keys. “Remy t’ought de cows’d come home befo’ his son’s maman did. Hit some traffic?”

“What’s it t’you if I did, Remy?” His cheeks darkened as he hurled the backpack on the couch with a thud.

“Ain’t like yer de one dat’s gotta wait on pins an’ needles, Belle! Y’see Rene every mo’nin’ when y’wake up, an’ kiss ‘im goodnight every night! An’ ya jus’ ‘spect Remy t’wait fo’ Belle t’creep on home, easy an’slow as ya please? Like Remy ain’t waited long enough?” He was plowing his fingers roughly through his hair, lips twisted as though to tear into her. He felt Rene’s small hands tugging on the hem of his sweater.

“Papa, look at my picture!” That defused him quickly as Bella made her escape to the kitchen to deposit the bags. He dimly heard the rustle of the plastic bags and of cans hitting the hard pine table while Rene filled his ear.

“Well, lookit dat! Mon fils is an artist,” Remy mused fondly, ruffling his son’s chestnut brown hair. He drowned in soft hazel eyes and mentally counted the freckles sprinkled generously over his nose and cheeks. He sat on the old brocade couch with his son snuggled up against his side as he attempted to recognize the queer arrangement of shapes scrawled in crayon on dark blue construction paper.

“Dat’s Coyote Ugly, Papa,” he informed him proudly. Remy squinted and made out four blobby wheels and what looked like a twisted hood ornament and lopsided doors. The stick figure grinning beside it had a shock of brown hair sticking up from its head. 

The shorter figure beside it was grinning just as broadly. “To Papa” was scrawled above it, right below a yellow sun and cotton ball clouds. Remy still had a fingerpainted handprint hanging in a frame made of dried macaroni hanging from the bulletin board of the shop for him and his uncle Philippe to enjoy. Remy’s heart twisted in his chest, pushing a lump into his throat. 

“Course it is, Rene! Papa knew dat. How was school?”

“S’alright. A girl tried t’kiss me on de playgroun’.” Remy’s chuckle was hoarse.

“Really, now? Startin’ young, mon fils!”

“Non, Papa, NON!” His son’s face was scrunched up as he attempted to lean away from his father’s tickling hands. Bella was greeted by Rene’s cackling giggles as she made her way into the living room with a plastic cup of juice for Rene and water for Remy. Then both of their smiles faded.

“Wanna take him fo’ de weekend an’ bring him back Sunday night,” he informed her. She sighed heavily. 

He didn’t deny that she was still beautiful. Faint character lines flanked the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were still that piercing crystal blue, almond shaped with dark brown lashes and arched brows. Her figure was still almost boyishly slim. She wore snug jeans and a white sweater that clung to her, its cropped hem just landing a couple of inches above her waistline to show a glimpse of her fair skin. She reached back and tugged on her thick blonde ponytail impatiently as she mulled his words.

“Take him, den. Don’ bring him back too late, Rem,” she warned. “Not like de last time.”

“Ain’t often dat Remy’s kept him dat late, chere,” he reminded her, his voice colored with disgust. “Tony been ‘roun’ lately?”

“Oui. _Pourquoi_?” 

“Just askin’.” Rene watched this exchange warily before he hopped up from the couch to retrieve his backpack. In typical fashion, he retreated to the table and unzipped it, extracting two Star Wars action figures. He busied himself with his toys, effectively drowning out what they had to say. Remy’s gut pinched with shame.

“Den dat’s all Remy needs to know,” she snapped. “Wanna give Rene his dinner first.”

“Wanted t’take him out t’eat,” Remy argued blandly, standing up. She remained seated and crossed her ankle indolently over her knee.

“Don’ keep feedin’ him junk.”

“Who said a t’ing ‘bout junk? It’s called food, Belle. Might be nice if y’took mon fils somewhere t’eat wit’out draggin’ Tony along fo’ de ride. Jus’ him an’ you.”

“Don’ gimme dat, Remy. Bella don’ answer t’you no mo’.” She finally rose and deserted him, calling back over her shoulder. “Lemme pack ‘im a bag.”

“Fine,” Remy huffed. “Ain’ like y’couldna done it by now. Had long enough.” He wandered over to his son and watched him manipulate the articulated limbs of his Anakin Skywalker figure before he picked up the one of Jango Fett, poising it for attack. Rene giggled and practically attacked his hand.

Bella approached with a small, red canvas duffle bulging with two days’ worth of clothing. She gently shoved it at him and eyed him carefully.

“What ‘bout you, Remy? Who’s been hangin’ outside yer door?”

“Does it matter, Belle?”

“Does if mon fils is gon’ be stayin’ wit you.”

“De hell you say,” he growled. “Remy’s been livin’ like a damned saint since he walked out dat door, chere.” He beckoned to his son, who was diligently scooping up as many action figures as he could carry, frequently dropping them again until Remy grabbed two and stuffed them into his own pockets. “Don’ worry about what Remy does ev’ry time he leaves dis house. Y’aint never hafta worry ‘bout me bringin’ ‘im back.”

“Come an’ kiss Maman,” Bella clucked, holding out her arms to Rene. He gave her a dutiful, loud kiss on her cheek, and for the only time since she came home, her smile reached its full wattage. “Be good.”

“I will, Maman!”

“Bon nuit,” Remy murmured on his way out the door.”

“Remy knows when t’bring ‘im back. Don’ take liberties, cher,” she muttered from the doorway. Her arms were folded before the screen swung shut with a clang. His only reply was a wave over his shoulder, without looking back.

 

~0~

 

Logan despised shopping. The weird scents emanating from the makeup and perfume counters, the closely packed floors with rack after rack of clearance items that nearly poked your eye out when you bent to pick up the clothes that never seemed to stay on their hangers. All of it. His method of getting what he needed was a three-step process. One: Tell the hovering sales clerks “No thanks. M’good,” when they asked him for the third time if he needed help. Two: Pick up the nearest button-down shirt and hold it up to himself without even looking in one of the mirrored pillars. Three: Dig out some cash. And he was good.

He was in Hecht’s browsing a shelf of one-pocket tees in a rainbow of solid colors when he felt a hesitant tap on his shoulder. He reacted sharply and stepped back, accidentally bumping into someone solid.

“Oof,” muttered a voice by his ear, rumbling and familiar. Logan tensed, feeling his whole body stiffen even more when the same large hand gently closed over his shoulder. The warm presence at his back retreated so he could turn around.

“Walt,” Logan confirmed gruffly in a low voice.

“Hi,” he nodded. Slate blue eyes studied him expectantly. “What’ve you been up to? Saw you here, looking around.”

“Yeah. Just…lookin’, I guess. Haven’t been up ta much of anything.”

“How’s work?”

“Just finished another house with Summers.”

“Oh? How did it turn out?”

“Fine. But look, Walt, I better get goin’…”

“Don’t.” Logan’s massively built former partner lunged left to cut off his flight. Logan swore under his breath. His expression was calm but pleading.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“You can’t give me a minute?”

“Walt…uh-uh. I already gave ya a helluva lot more than that. An’ I’m tired.” The cords in Walter’s neck strained as he swallowed.

“I wasn’t ready for you to just walk out, Jamie.” His stomach knotted up at the use of his old pet name; Walt was the only one who liked his legal first name, James, better than his customary handle. “I’ve thought about you.”

“Yeah?” There it was. That same plaintive look settling over his European features. Logan rubbed his nape absently, conjuring the same memory for both of them.

His head had dented the plaster. Dented it.

“You know I’m sorry.”

“Walt…I’m sorry now. I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“I need to talk about it!” His insistence was almost boyish. Logan sighed. “It’s different now. I know I acted like an asshole, but I’m ready for a real commitment, Jamie! Come on. Please,” he offered, reaching out to tug Logan’s sleeve.

Walt still held that fresh, slightly metallic scent. Logan’s body reacted to having him so near. Once he craved this man, cried out beneath his touch and his seeking mouth. That old tingle was still there.

But the trust was gone.

“I think we’ve moved on, bub. The two of us. What we had was good, but it wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect.” Logan fell back on old habits. _Put the blame back on myself_ … “In some ways I’ve changed, Walt, but a lot’s still the same.”

“Jamie, I _miss_ you. Come and talk to me. Not here.”

“I’ve gotta run errands and head back to the house.”

“You haven’t seen my new place.”

“It ain’t such a good idea fer me ta do that, Walt.” Logan replaced a tee shirt he’d been fingering back on the shelf, deciding on a hasty exit. 

“If you cared about me…” Walter began hopefully.

“I did. Don’t start. Goodbye, Walter.” Logan broke away from him, heading in the opposite direction. He’d made it ten paces before he heard heavy footsteps dogging him past the women’s wear.

“You never understood that about me, Jamie!” He didn’t raise his voice, despite his rush to catch up. “I was upset. I wanted you to listen to me. I wanted to make you understand how I felt.”

“Walt, ya just about tore me a new one fer not callin’ ta let ya know I was comin’ home late. That was just the tip of the friggin’ iceberg. Shit…I don’t wanna talk about this here.” There were too many arguments, too many angry words and even angrier silences that haunted him.

“Then come home with me.” His eyes really said _Just come home TO me._

“I can’t.”

“Why?” The beginnings of anger and frustration began to tighten the corners of his chiseled lips. Only moments ago, Logan had been drawn in, lured by the same easy charm that attracted him in the first place. Walt was everything Logan wasn’t: A gregarious, needy man who craved attention and approval and who wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no.’ His defenses reared up once more, fortifying the walls around his heart.

“It ain’t home ta me anymore.” His hand was poised on the swinging exit door leading out the parking lot. “Don’t do this. Walt…I cared about ya. A lot. I want ya ta be happy, but it ain’t gonna be with me anymore. I…I don’t know if ya ever really were. Ya wouldn’t have done what ya did if ya were.” Walter’s breathing was heavy and his shoulders drooped. His jaw worked and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna walk away? You’ve got somebody else?” Logan froze; any words he could give evaporated into thin air. His grip tightened on the door handle, and Walter pounced on his silence. “You have, haven’t you? That’s why you’re being so dodgy, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” he repeated harshly. “I knew it. That was it the whole time, wasn’t it?”

“The hell it was!” Logan snarled, all patience gone. “Ya always thought ya couldn’t trust me, Walter! I tried…God knows I tried.” His nostrils flared; anger sparked in his dark eyes, and his posture spoke of hurt. “I tried so hard, Walt. Ta love ya and be the kinda man ya needed, but I wasn’t. Someone ruined it all for ya at some point, so ya couldn’t accept me as someone who loved ya and wouldn’t hurt ya. I never wanted ta hurt ya, Walt. But ya got angry and couldn’t hear what I was tryin’ ta say or see what I was tryin’ ta show ya. You were my only, Walt.” Ugly, hot prickles washed over him, and his voice grew soft and hoarse. “I ain’t gonna keep ya. I’ve got errands ta run. Take care of yerself, Walter.” His face resumed its stony mask before he turned on his heel and exited the breezeway.

Walter didn’t try to follow him. Logan didn’t turn back to witness the anguish scarring his face.

The entire ride back to the house, Logan beat himself up, guilty about one thing: In a sense, he’d lied to Walt. _You’ve got somebody else?_

The worst part was, Logan _really didn’t know_.

 

~0~

Remy’s eyes were glued to the sea of movie screens lining the walls at Hollywood Video as Rene filled his ears with the comparative benefits of every title in the kids’ section of the store.

“Dis one has Donatello, Papa! Donatello an’ Raphael!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can we get dis one, Papa? I wan’ Batman!”

“Why not, petit?”

“PAPA!”

“Eh?” He was drawn from his reverie by the faint smack of a plastic DVD case against his backside. “Hey!”

“C’mon, Papa! Wan DIS one!” Remy relieved him of the case and took his hand, staring down into diminutive features so much like his, currently screwed up in a pout.

“Hafta let Papa pick one out fo’ a sec, chere,” Remy offered. “Den we eat.”

“PIZZA!” Rene crowed, all signs of a pending tantrum gone as he practically dragged his father out of the kids’ movies toward the new arrivals. Remy sighed and continued to let his son fill his ear, pointing out each title on the shelf and extolling the reasons why his father needed it. Loudly.

He was just making up his mind between Samuel Jackson or Ben Stiller when he heard the clatter of plastic cases hitting the floor in a heap. “RENE! NON! C’mere!” he snapped.

“M’sorry, Papa,” he murmured, shrinking under his gaze

“Pick ‘em up an’ put ‘em back,” Remy shrugged.

“Wuz tryin’ t’get you dis one, Papa,” he insisted, pointing to a case on the top shelf. _Die Hard_. His son meant well…

“Ain’ tall enough.” He patiently waited for his son to pick up the remaining cases when a low voice spoke up from behind him.

“I might be.” A thick-knuckled, broad hand reached past him to pluck _Die Hard_ from its perch. “Yer kid’s got good taste.” Warm chocolate eyes crinkled at him and a faint smile quirked his lips.

“Just spent ten minutes in de kiddy section that says otha’wise, mon ami.” Logan’s chest shook.

“They can’t all be gems.” Logan peered down at the little boy who was giving him the once-over, looking like a deer in the headlights. “Hey, big guy.”

“Papa, who’s he?”

“G’wan, Rene, tell ‘im yer name, it’s okay dis time. Papa knows ‘im.” Instead of waiting for intros, Logan knelt down and helped finish the boy’s chore.

“Rene, eh? What’d ya pick out fer yerself?”

“Turtles! It’s got Donatello,” he announced proudly. Remy rolled his eyes and waved the case over his son’s head. Logan suppressed a grin.

“Man after my own heart. Any movie with ninjas in it’s good in my book."

“What ya lookin’ fo’, mec?”

“Dunno yet. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Rene…go ‘head an’ pick out anotha’ one. Papa’ll be along in a sec.” Rene grinned and trotted off. Logan’s face was full of questions.

“He’s seven.”

“Good looking kid.”

“Ain’t gonna argue dat.” But Remy beamed.

“Got anything good planned for him tonight?”

“Dinner. Movie. Knock-knock jokes till m’ears fall off. De usual.” Logan chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that warmed Remy and brought back a memory he’d locked away of how he sounded that morning a few days ago. He almost felt that broad, solid chest against his back again, setting the pace of his own breathing…

Remy shook himself.

“I ain’t gonna tear ya away from it. Enjoy yer time with her son.”

“Hey…chere? Gimme a minute,” he muttered, anxious to keep him there. He was still burly and rugged, dressed in comfortably faded jeans and a black corduroy shirt. “Ya left early de last time.”

“Didn’t wanna overstay my welcome.”

“Ya didn’.” Hooded red-on-black eyes peered at him a moment as he dug a crumpled receipt out of his wallet. “Got a pen?”

“Uh-huh.” Logan handed him a Bic with a well-chewed end. Remy’s scrawl was long and jagged as he used the video shelf as a writing surface. He folded the slip of paper around the pen as he handed it back.

“We didn’ get t’talk much.”

“Nope. Hey, Rem?”

_“Oui?_

“Thanks. Fer dinner. Fer, uh, _breakfast_.” Logan repeated the same gesture he’d given Walter; his eyes dropped to the floor as he raked his fingers through the coarse curls at his nape. Remy looked at him with a hint of disbelief. Logan was _shy_.

“Dat’s if y’wanna reach Remy away from de shop.”

“Got caller ID?” Remy nodded. “Then that’ll give ya my number when ya hear from me.” He didn’t suggest when. Remy didn’t press.

“Betta get Rene befo’ he tears dis place up.”

“Fine.”

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Remy jus’ t’ought ya should know…” he murmured, his voice low enough to draw Logan closer. “Y’make dis funny l’il sound in ya sleep.” His lips curled. A hot flush bloomed in Logan’s cheeks.

_“Shit_ …” Remy’s eyes were full of mischief and something resembling affection. “G’night.”

_“Bon nuit._

Before Logan finished making his selection, he heard a high-pitched voice chirping “Bye!” He turned to see Rene practically turning his head off his neck to look back at him, waving frantically. Remy’s smile and a brief nod accompanied it as they took off.

His own lips cracked a smile intermittently as he drove back to the site.

_~0~_

Scott wiped his brow on his sleeve, smearing a streak of dust and sweat across his skin. He sat back on his haunches and admired their handiwork, namely a brand new tile floor in the kitchen. Their budget had been steep when they upgraded to the travertine that was Logan’s favorite, but it had been worth it.

“That’s one mighty fine floor.” Scott rose and took a sip from a depleted water bottle on the counter. 

“It’s a friggin’ masterpiece,” Logan agreed. “Wanna sign it?”

“Fuck off!” Logan grinned smugly.

“Think I’m done, Summers.” Various muscles in his back pinched and twisted into hard knots. He was dying for a shower, steaming and pounding in his ears.

“Think you’re right. Unless I can talk you into working through? Grab you a sleeping bag?”

“If yer nice ta me, Summers, I’ll tell Aleytys where I buried yer body as a wedding present.”

“Ahhhhh! Hold up, hold up. You just reminded me. I wanted to ask you about that. Better yet, Lee wanted to ask you. She has a friend.”

“No.”

“No details? Not even a little curious?”

“Nope. Don’t waste yer time an’ mine, bub.”

“Lee said she’s a kick in the pants. Nice looking. Likes dogs. Works at the community center.”

“Pass.”

“Not even a little tempted?”

“She’s got all that goin’ for her, she’s still single, and yer wife’s askin’ around ta yer single friends? What’s left ta ask?” Scott sighed.

“Yeah…whaddever. I’ll just tell her you’ll be at the reception, then. Shouldn’t put you on the spot.”

“Just tell her I’m the one runnin’ fer the door.”

“Har-de-freakin’-har."

_~0~_

“Did you ask Logan about Mary? Did he sound interested?”

“I couldn’t wear him down.”

“Nuts.” Aleytys sighed as she rubbed scented cocoa butter cream into her elbows. “Thought we had him. Hey, what’m I talking about? Mary’s gonna be riding with me to the church in the limo.”

“And?” Scott raised his eyebrows as he climbed into bed, turning down her side of the bed.

“There might not be enough room for all of the bridesmaids in it on the way to the hall,” she informed him smugly. Her smile was beatific as she sat on the edge of the bed and extinguished the lamp. Scott groaned in the dark.


	5. Lukewarm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annoying wedding receptions. And smut. And uncertainty.
> 
> But mostly smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bottom!Logan.

What was up with women at wedding receptions?

They all turned into _So You Think You Can Dance_ contestants after the dinner was over and they’d had that second glass of wine.

Logan made himself as comfortable as he could at cramped round table, wrapped obediently in a stiff, slate gray suit. His thick black hair was scarcely tamed by a remnant of hair product that Silver had bequeathed him when she left. At least it didn’t smell flowery like the stuff she used. He didn’t want to attract bees.

The food wasn’t remarkable, but it was edible. Aleytys was a good sport when Scott smashed a wedge of the pristine white cake in her face, leaving flecks of buttercream frosting dripping from the tip of her nose. She made a stunning bride, garbed in a sedate white satin gown, a strapless, slender sheath with a short train.

Scott and Lee made a wholesome couple. Logan wished them the best.

He wished himself out of there, ASAP.

“So what did you say you did for a living again?” He never said what he did before. Lee’s friend Colleen watched him expectantly, toying with her glass of wine.

“Construction. I’m a contractor.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Few years now. It’s a living.” He leaned back and twisted himself around in his chair so he wouldn’t get neck strain. If she’d seated herself across from him, he’d have had the benefit of “personal space” when the remainder of the guests flanking them all got up to dance.

Colleen was classically pretty in a Colgate ad, girl next door way; her lips were even coated in matte red lipstick. She wore Lee’s choice of bridesmaid gown well. Her girlish curves were draped softly in the French vanilla chiffon, and her shapely calves were enhanced by strappy pumps.

She was pleasant. She was friendly. She was intelligent and polite.

She did _nothing_ for him.

“Do you like what you do?”

“I’ve been doing it for a long time,” he shrugged. “It’s second nature.” Then he added “I like working with my hands. It’s great to see a project coming together.” It was a safe answer that did the trick. She beamed.

“It’s good to do something you love for a living, whether you get rich off it or not.”

“Whaddya do for a nine ta five?”

“Private investigator. Spent seven years walking a beat before I decided I wanted a desk job with my own hours. Mind you, I spend plenty of time away from my desk, too, out in the field.” That got his attention.

“Then ya’ve got yer act together, kiddo. Good for you.”

“I think I manage pretty well,” she chuckled. “So, Logan. Where’s your plus one?”

“Eh?”

“You came alone to this shindig.” Logan huffed.

“Kinda came with you,” he reminded her. On a technicality…

“Courtesy of some clever engineering by Lee. God love her. Just tell me, bub,” she grinned, leaning conspiratorially toward him. “How long has it been since the last time you had to make small talk with someone new?”

“Shit,” he muttered, but his eyes warmed, crinkling at the corners. “That depends.” Her checked his watch. “What time is it now?”

“Gads.” She nodded toward the dance floor. A sea of adults old enough to know better were lined up in sloppy rows, doing the electric slide. “This is as good as it’s gonna get, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t had a congo line yet.”

“Thank the good Lord,” she tsked. She elbowed him. “Save me a sappy ballad?”

“Eh. How ‘bout another drink instead?”

“Lead on, MacDuff.”

Scott accosted them at the hosted bar, clapping Logan on the back. “I wondered where you guys escaped to,” he accused, his tone inferring they’d been up to more than commiserating.

“Yer in fine form, killer.” The groom was flushed, his normally impeccable hair slightly tousled, but his brown eyes were shining with contentment. This was his day.

“Save something for tonight,” Colleen winked, reaching out to straighten his tie.

“Put on your running shoes and baseball mit, kid,” he countered slyly. “Bouquet toss is in five minutes.” Colleen humored him until they watched his retreating back, dancing to the center of the floor to meet Aleytys. 

“Just shoot me now.”

“Whatsamatter, ya don’t like flowers?”

“They sit there for a few days and die.” She devoured the cherry in her tequila sunrise. “At least you can use the garter as a slingshot.”

“My catchin’ arm’s a little rusty.”

“ _Ahhhhhhh_ ,” she hummed knowingly. “Got burned pretty bad, huh?”

“The skin’s just growin’ back, darlin’.”

“Too many late nights? Cheating? She snored and left stockings hanging in the shower?”

“Wish it was just that I had to share my razors,” he grumbled, swishing the last of his flat beer in the bottom of the mug. He swallowed the lukewarm liquid and made a face.

“You lived in sin, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What was she like? How did she end it?” Logan relaxed, knowing she had accepted that a real date between them wasn’t in the cards.

“Answer A: Kinda blond. Big. Smart. Non-smoker. Kinda jealous, but affectionate. Smothered me sometimes. Answer B: We had a big fight. More’n a shouting match. I patched the drywall so they wouldn’t take it outta my deposit, since I signed off the lease first.” She looked appalled but sympathetic.

“What was her name?”

“Walt.” She choked on a gulp of her drink and almost aspirated an ice cube. He took the glass from her and administered several brisk whacks against her back.

“ _Keeaarrrrggghhh_ … Geez. Sorry. I must sound like an ass.” She peered up at him through watery eyes. “So why did you agree to this?”

“Cuz Scott and Lee meant well, and it’s nice havin’ a date ta somethin’ like this. And fer the record, my ex before Walt did leave her stockings in the shower.”

“Oh. So this…” she gestured between them with a wave, “wasn’t off-base?”

“Nope. And fer the record, ya don’t seem like someone who wants ta be fixed up.”

“Give the man a gold star. But for the record, Logan, I’m having a good time.”

“When did the well run dry fer you, darlin’?”

“When I found out that the only night shifts my ex was clocking in for were at the Quality Inn.” She sighed. “Luke was a pip.”

“We’re not all like that.” She gave him a look.

“You thought you had one of the good ones, too. It’s okay to be wrong sometimes.”

“No, it ain’t. It sucks.”

“I was hoping you’d buy it. Then maybe _I’d_ believe it.”

They pulled up to Colleen’s apartment roughly an hour later, both empty-handed. They each stood amongst the crowd for the toss and conveniently let it sail over their heads. Colleen’s smile was gentle as she clutched the passenger door handle and spoke over the running engine.

“Thanks for entertaining me. And the rides.”

“Likewise, kiddo. See ya ‘round?”

“If I give you this, then yes.” She dove into her tiny clutch. She pressed a white business card into his hand. “Lunch. Coffee. Sixers game. Or if you just wanna talk.” He peered down at it thoughtfully: _Colleen Wing, PI_.

“Or if I need ya ta dig up any skeletons?”

“Depends on whose. That might involve cash.”

Her brief peck warmed his cheek before he drove off, returning her wave from the rearview mirror. He tucked the card into his glove box. A slip of paper that had been rolled up and folded in half caught his eye; he held it under the light before he closed her door.

_Y’make dis funny l’il sound in ya sleep_. A broad grin cracked his face.

~0~

_Thud-thud-thud-thud-THUMP!_ Belladonna awoke to the sound of footsteps scrabbling toward her door. She winced at the sliver of yellow light winding through the crack of her door. It exploded into a chafing glade as Rene ran inside and threw himself into her bed. She yelped at the pummeling of her ribs by his small feet. “Dieu! Rene! Mon fils, what’s wrong wi’ you, baby? Had a dream?” She yawned and rubbed her eyes, feeling a pillow crease in her cheek.

“Heard sumthin’, Maman,” he whispered. “Outside.”

“Don’ hear anyt’in’, chere…hold on,” she hissed, suddenly alert. There it was.

It was coming from her garage. Belladonna untangled herself from the covers and whipped on her terrycloth robe. “Stay here,” she admonished him. “Shut de door after me, baby.”

“Maman!”

“Stay!” she barked. Her blood raced as she hurried outside. Her flapping robe knocked a magazine from her coffee table on her way out the screen door.

She rounded the corner of the house, following the dim light shining from the porch. Cold gravel scratched Bella’s soles as she tried to pick out voices.

Julien’s familiar, raspy tones greeted her as she lingered breathlessly outside. She saw two pairs of feet moving back and forth. Tools and a metal cart were scraping the cement.

She reached for the handle of the garage bay door and jerked it up the rest of the say.

“What de hell y’doin’, Julien!” she spat. “Scarin’ Rene, makin’ me think someone’s out t’get us!” She ceased her breathless tirade when her eyes dropped to the car propped on cement blocks.

“Merde…Julien! Dat shouldn’ be in here! What de hell did y’bring dat in here fo’!”

“Bella…”

“Uh-uh! NON! Don’ do did, chere! Don’ mix me up in dis again!”

“S’alright, Belle.” He hushed her, evading her half-balled fists and lightly shaking her. His gray eyes searched her face, his lips a grim line. “Calm down, petit. Jus’ calm down! Don’t be scarin’ Rene!”

“You de one scarin’ him! Why, Julien? Pour quoi? HUH? Said ya wouldn’ get into dis again! Promised me!” She broke away from him and scraped her hair back from her face, tugging it. “Promised Remy. I promised Remy!”

“Is dat it? Y’worryin’ ‘bout Remy?” Julien groaned in disgust. “Dis ain’t ‘bout him, petit.”

“Y’can’t do dis here.”

“Go. Get back in de house. Stay wi’ Rene.”

“Don’ go against me, Julien!”

“Get inside!” he rumbled, keeping his voice measured to avoid interference from his sisters’ neighbors. “Gonna talk ‘bout it wi’ you in de mo’nin’, petit. G’wan.”

“Fuck you, Julien!” she snapped. She turned on her heel and stomped inside, securing the deadbolts.

 

~0~

Remy fumbled in the dark, reaching for the bedside lamp. His cell was ringing from underneath something, dragging him from troubled sleep.

“Merde,” he cursed, wincing at the digital display on his clock. 10:15. _Shit_ …

“Dis Remy,” he mumbled hoarsely.

“Shit…I woke ya. M’sorry. Look, I’ll call you back tomorr-“

“Non. Cher…don’ hang up.” He sat up and stretched, yawning into the phone. He heard Logan’s chagrin in his voice. “What’s on y’mind, homme?”

“Just got back from Scott’s wedding. Long night. Not bad. Just long.” Remy thought he heard traffic in the background.

“Remy almost fuhgot y’wuz goin’.” He reached for a half-full glass of water he’d left on his nightstand and took a gulp to fortify himself. He made a face at its tepid taste. “Made it home in one piece den, neh?”

“Thought about ya,” Logan interjected. Remy felt something stirring in him, and he leaned back against the pillows. “Wondered if ya had better plans than mine.”

“Game. Dinner. Paper. Smoke.” He didn’t add “watching my machine” to that list.

“Yer boy with ya?”

“Non.” Then, “Rene jabbered on a mile a minute dat night ‘bout ya.” Logan chuckled.

“Nice kid.”

“Looks out fo’ his poppa.” Remy stared at the picture Rene drew, resting in its place of honor atop the dresser.

“Bet he does. Hey, Rem, sorry I woke ya. This is a crappy time – “

“No it ain’t. Where ya at?” He heard Logan’s intake of breath, followed by a long pause.

“Headin’ ta the store fer milk.”

“Where?”

“Bout eight blocks away.”

“Ya need it dat bad?”

“Why?” Remy smiled in the dark.

“Remy wan’ see if it could wait til tomorra,” he husked. “Remy’s got milk, if y’need any in de mo’nin’, cher.” He could almost hear him mulling it over.

Logan gripped his steering wheel tightly. His clothes felt too snug. He couldn’t shake his restlessness.

“Guess it can wait.”

“Remy’ll leave on a light, den, cher.” He hung up and padded into the kitchen.

He was ripping open two packets of cocoa and dumping them into mugs when he heard the low knock on his door. Remy felt Logan’s emotions as soon as he entered the hallway. Anticipation somersaulted in his belly.

Logan stood in his doorway, leaning against the frame. His eyes held shadows under them, but they were full of satisfaction. “Hey.”

“C’mon. Come in, homme.” He stepped aside to admit him and gave a low whistle. Logan snorted.

“What?”

“Clean up nice. Real nice,” he muttered, appraising him. His smile was lopsided and wicked. 

The suit was well-tailored and molded carefully to the solid planes of his body. His shoes had been lovingly shined, but his hair was on its last gasp, already springing free from its careful styling. It made him look rakish and hinted at the wildness inside him, barely restrained. Remy clapped him on the back and led him into the kitchen after he locked up.

Logan made himself at home, taking up the same chair from his previous visit. Remy puttered around the kitchen and punched in the microwave time in short beeps, heating the cups. Logan sighed, taking in Remy’s boxers and bare feet.

“Ya got the right idea, Rem.”

“Join me, den,” he suggested. Instead of seating himself, Remy leaned on the edge of the table in front of Logan and reached for the knot of his ties. Logan watched fascinated as his slender fingers deftly unknotted it, grazing him as he completed the task. The cool silk tickled his pulse as Remy whisked it away. “Betta?” Logan’s lip quirked.

“Gettin’ there.” The microwave dinged. Remy extracted the cups and handed him one, blowing to cool its contents. Sweet, chocolaty steam bathed his lips as he attempted a sip. His eyes were so tired they ached.

Remy looked charmingly tousled and unabashed. His dark cotton boxers gapped in the front, revealing the shadowy bulge of his manhood.

It was already beginning to swell. The drafty kitchen made his flat brown nipples pebble.

“Take a load off, cher.” Logan sighed and ground the heel of his hand into his eye.

“It’s late,” he murmured. “But I wanted t’see ya.” He slowly gulped down half of the sweet brew and set down his cup.

There. It was out there. Logan grew tense with anticipation over Remy’s reaction, and he felt his walls rising up around him protectively.

He wasn’t thinking straight. He’d said too much. He wasn’t ready for any of it…

He tasted like chocolate when Remy bent down to kiss him. His mouth was hot as they exchanged breaths. Remy’s lips were firm, probing; Logan made a strained sound and moaned for him when his hands fisted in his lapels, pulling him closer. Remy smelled like sleep and the remnant of his shampoo. Remy’s tongue teased him as he sucked his lover’s lip. Logan let him inside, stroking his velvety tongue and combing his fingers through his rich auburn hair.

“Let’s g’wan back, cher. Remy knows y’tired, neh?”

Logan nodded. “Oui.” He stood and stole one more brief kiss before he crept down the hall. Remy’s lamp was still on. Logan sat on the edge of the bed and moved to unbutton his jacket. Remy stilled his hands and knelt before him.

“Easy, cher.” Remy tugged Logan’s foot into his bare lap and began untying the laces of his hard leather shoes. The corners of Logan’s mouth twitched, but he enjoyed the younger man’s attentions. Relief flooded him as it was removed, restoring blood flow to his cramped toes.

“Eeeerrrgh,” Logan groaned. Remy tweaked his foot before rolling down his sock. He was meticulous, gently swiping at the bits of sock fluff.

“Tickles,” Logan complained, before grumbling “Damn, that feels good.” Remy started massaging the ball of his foot, sending a jolt of arousal through him. Remy concentrated on the task of relaxing him, moving over both feet and shucking the other loafer.

He looked beautiful to him, in repose like that. He laid his shoes aside, tucking the balled-up socks inside. He pressed his thumbs into Logan’s sole and kneaded it expertly. “How’s dat feel, cher?” Logan made an incomprehensible sound; his eyes were closed and his head lolled forward like a rag doll’s. Rapture was written on his features as he continued to work his magic.

Remy came up on his knees and made short work of his jacket, reaching inside to slide it from his broad shoulders. Logan’s muscles felt hot, but knotted beneath his hands. Logan opened his eyes and leaned in for another kiss, this time harder, deeper. He kissed his youthful face, punctuating each button that Remy unfastened and steaming his cheeks. “Lemme take care of ya tonight, cher.” His fingers trailed fire over his abdomen as he peeled the hem of his cotton undershirt out from his waistband. Logan’s muscles jumped, shivering at the light caress. The dress shirt and jacket were laid neatly aside; the tank began the small pile of clothes accumulating on the floor.

Remy nipped his neck as he fondled him, exploring the textures of his skin, smooth here, matted generously with coarse dark curls there. “Taste so good, cher,” he whispered, letting his teeth graze his nipple. Logan arched sharply into his heat and gasped.

“Shit! Remy!” he hissed through his teeth as his tongue spiraled around the morsel. Electricity pooled everywhere his mouth touched.

The flap of his pants was roughly unzipped and yanked open. His erection bobbed free, twitching and searching for his lover’s heat.

“Lie back,” Remy ordered. His slacks slithered down the length of his legs. Cool air against his fevered skin made him tingle. “Dieu…wan’ ya real bad, cher.” He traced the contours of his calves, then his knees, nipping the vulnerable flesh of his inner thigh. Red-on-black eyes tempted him from his vantage point, watching from around his tumescent cock. He was swollen, rock hard and craving the liquid fire of Remy’s mouth.

He engulfed him, tearing a loud cry from him. Logan’s fingers tangled in the covers as Remy sucked him like a melting popsicle. He savored Logan, humming in contentment over the slickness sliding in and out between his pursed lips. Logan bucked; his hips thrust themselves up from the mattress. The sound he made in response to Remy's mouth was long, guttural and desperate.

“Ah, God! REM!” He suckled him harder, cradling his balls and stroking the tender underside with his thumb. The sight of Remy’s closed eyes and his mouth lowering itself over him was erotic. It enflamed him. “Remy,” he cried helplessly. Pleasure blanketed him as Remy shouldered himself beneath Logan’s knees, letting his feet dangle over his back. His strokes shortened, allowing him to draw Logan further down his throat. Logan’s breathing was harsh. He threw back his head, biting his lip until it stung. His arms were thrown over his head; he trusted Remy’s instincts and offered up his body to him. He didn’t clutch his hair or guide his face, instead handing him complete control.

His palms swept over Logan in smooth strokes, tickling the crease between every muscle. He combed his fingers through the nest of hair between his legs.

“Sweet…Jesus, help…me,” he chanted. “Fuck! S’good! Nnngh! So fuckin’ good,” he growled. His cock twitched and jerked inside his mouth, stiffening more with each lap.

His climax broke free, rocking him and leaving him incoherent. This time he curled his body around Remy, stilling his roaming hands by clamping them around the waist. His face contorted in pleasure and shock as sensations rippled through him. Remy’s mouth coddled him, draining him before he eased back. His lips lingered over the tip while Logan collapsed, limp.

“Climb on in, chere,” Remy encouraged huskily, turning down the covers and reaching for him. Logan rolled to his stomach and sprawled, content. “Gon’ get a chill, Logan.”

“Can’t move,” he mumbled. His eyes were closed, but a smile was smeared over his face. Remy studied his broad back. Sculpted contours tapered down to a toned waist. His ass was firm and smooth, sporting two perfect dimples, round enough to have something to grab. Remy felt renewed stirrings of desire.

“M’fine.” But he groaned at the sensation of Remy’s hand running over his spine and palming his glute, exploring the curve with his thumb.

“Sure are fine, mec,” he agreed softly as he began to settle Logan more comfortably at the head of the bed. “Jus’ a sec.” He reached into his side table again, this time for a bottle of warming lotion.

“Come t’bed,” Logan mumbled in protest. But the feel of lotion slicking over his back, letting Remy massage and knead him into submission silenced any complaints. Remy climbed over his and straddled his hips as he rubbed him down.

“Remy likes hearin’ ya, cher. All dose sounds, tellin’ me ya like what Remy’s doin’ Like it a lot. When Remy touches ya like dis,” he purred, rolling his shoulders and loosening the bunched cords of Logan’s trapezius. Logan’s groan was deep, muffled by the pillow. “An’ like dis, mon ami.” Excitement and anticipation swept through Remy, astride Logan’s prone form, masculine, rough-hewn and sexy. He felt powerful as desire curled in his stomach. The public at large saw Logan’s game face, a man who took no shit.

Here, in the lush silence of Remy’s bedroom, beneath the press of his strong fingers, Logan was _vulnerable_.

They had no reason to trust each other yet. It didn’t _matter_. Not tonight.

Logan exhaled, blowing out every molecule of oxygen in his lungs when Remy molded his ass like clay. His hips jerked, then slowly began to lift and press into the mattress. A low throbbing grew in his dick from the friction of the sheets, and he felt Remy growing hard against his crease.

Remy’s heart was pounding as his body strained for fulfillment. For Logan.

“Do it.” Two hoarse words. Remy’s breath hitched. He retrieved the lube from the drawer, returning the other bottle of lotion to its place.

“Wan’ you,” Remy rasped. “So bad, cher.” He slicked his fingers with the lubricant and teased Logan’s crevice, pressing his index finger inside up to the first knuckle, giving him a minute to adjust to the pressure.

Logan shuddered; his ass lifted toward Remy, leaning into his hand. He probed him, sliding inside his snug sheath. Pleasure rocketed through Logan. God help me… He clenched around him, growing accustomed to the faint stretch. He felt his sac grow heavy in response.

“Wan’ you. Y’so hot, mon ami. Remy wans’ t’hear ya beg him fo’ mo’. Wan’ feel ya squeeze me hard, cher. Hard as y’can.” He laid his body alongside Logan’s as he primed him. He feathered a kiss over his shoulder and felt him twitch in response, then moan as he twisted his wrist.

“Fuck! Aw, fuck, Remy!” A hot, rough kiss against his exposed nape made him buck even harder. Remy drizzled more lube into his pucker and worked it inside, inserting a second finger, dilating him. Logan’s moan was pained, garbling his words. “Rem…please. God, help me…please.”

“S’alright, cher. Take it easy. Remy wan’ ya t’be ready fo’ him.” He deepened his thrust, and Logan gradually spread his legs more widely, folding his knees up under him. He raised his ass in silent welcome. Remy felt a clench in his gut.

Logan trusted him. Wanted him.

“Please,” Logan groaned. “Want you.” He felt bereft at the loss of Remy’s hand, withdrawing from the now slick tunnel that needed him, craved him. The smooth, thick head of Remy’s cock replaced it, pushing at his entrance until it yielded for him, drawing him inside.

“Fuck! _Mon Dieu_!” The first squeeze of Logan’s muscles engulfing him almost staggered him. So hot, tight. Cushioning him. Embracing his length. He began to thrust, answering the call of Logan’s body and his slack lips. “Aw, fuck, cher! S’good! Tight. Y'so sweet...”

“Yes!” Logan huffed, twisting his fists in the sheets. “Want it all, Rem! Give it t’me!” It pushed him over the edge.

Remy stretched him, filled him, pounding into him and making him throb in ecstasy. He pistoned and thrust, his torso rippling with the motions and gleaming with sweat. His hand held Logan’s shoulder tightly, the other gripping his supple hip. Their low cries and curses mingled, their breathing fell into sync. Logan met the slaps of Remy’s balls against his, pushing back into him greedily, urging him to give him more.

Pressure built in Remy’s lower spine and burned its way down his dick. His dick swelled and cramped before he erupted in thick spurts.

“Merde! FUCK! Ah, Gawd, chere!” His hips bucked and spasmed of their own volition. The aftershocks shook them both as he pounded and jerked inside Logan until he finally stilled. 

He panted and gasped, rocking over Logan’s trembling body as he slowly withdrew. “Shit,” he hissed.

Several minutes passed silently between them as they lay back against the pillows, sated and relaxed. Logan lay stretched out with his burly arm wrapped snugly around Remy’s waist and with his ear pressed over his heart beat. Their breathing fell in sync. Logan’s limbs felt heavy as Remy’s fingers sifted through his hair.

“Didja dance tonight, cher?” Logan stifled a laugh.

“Nope.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Guess I’m a wallflower.” Remy tsked, kissing his temple.

“Jus’ didn’ have de right person askin’ ya t’dance, cher.”


	6. Empty Sheets and Voice Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble follows Remy. Every family has that one black sheep.

The pillow beside him was cold by the time Logan opened his eyes. He squinted and groaned as he rocked himself upright and waited for his vision to clear.

7:00AM. _Shit_.

The bed still held Remy’s scent, but a quick scan of the room told Logan all he needed to know. The bureau drawer was slightly ajar; a sock hung halfway over the edge. His work boots were missing, as were the coveralls Logan had noticed folded neatly on top of the hamper the night before. The Cajun went to work. Not so much as a by-your-leave, or, Logan griped, a kiss. One for the road? No, Remy?

Priorities and a mile-high to-do list made him dismiss his errant lover’s…dismissal. Logan had to beat feet.

He strode naked into the bathroom, whistling. Despite waking alone, Logan felt fantastic; he was relaxed and loose and rested better than he had in months. His dreams were blessedly placid, nearly blank. Yet somehow, he felt Remy, even in sleep, above and beyond burying his nose in the kid’s soft hair that smelled like sunlight.

There was already a thick, clean towel folded on top of the commode, and a fresh bar of soap rested in the shower. Logan could still smell the vaguest hint of the Cajun’s aftershave and toothpaste, as well as his pheromones, thankfully. The apartment wasn’t remarkable in its layout or furnishings, but Logan felt…comfortable. Easy in his skin, if he had to describe it, in Remy’s quiet little abode.

The steam tickled his nostrils as he ran himself a hot shower. The spray felt luxurious as it pounded against his back, rushing in warm runnels over his scalp and through his thick waves.

“Eeerrrrgggh,” Logan groaned through his teeth. What had he been thinking?

He called him and showed up in the middle of the night. What kind of rookie move was that? _Hello, desperate_ , he chided himself. _I know it’s late. But I wanted ta see ya_. Damn.

Logan’s self-recriminations broke through his morning after “afterglow” and made him move more quickly through his routine. He walked out of the shower with the towel slung around his hips and was still wet as he rummaged for his clothes, only donning the boxers, wifebeater and slacks. He had to change at home and meet Scooter; breakfast could wait.

He dimly became aware of the scent of coffee that he hadn’t noticed before. Logan ambled into the kitchen with his shoes, dropping into one of the dinette chairs to put them on.

A note. The yellow Post-It caught his eye. He peeled it from the microwave door, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as he read Remy’s scrawl.

_Be home late. Working on a car. Have some coffee before you go._

_Didn’t want to get out of bed…_

-R.

 

Logan generously sugared a mug of the sharp French roast and turned off the pot. He turned the note over and snagged a pen from the counter, using the other side of the paper scrap.

_Thanks for the coffee, and the cocoa. Here’s my cell, if you want._

_Next time, wake me up?_

 

-L.

 

He made the bed and collected his belongings, locking up Remy’s apartment on his way out. As he unlocked his car, he belatedly – smugly – realized he never bought milk.

 

~0~

 

Bella sat huddled on the couch as Rene sang along to the theme song of the Power Rangers from where he sat on the carpet. The remnants of his breakfast cereal lay sogging and murky on the coffee table, its bowl leaving a sticky gray ring.

Damn Julien.

Every time the phone rang, she jumped out of her skin. Remy complained that she was screening her calls just to dick him around when she knew he wanted to see his son.

_Pick up de damn phone, Belle. Wanna talk t’Rene. Pack his bags fo’ de weekend, an’ don’ tell Remy no_. Normally Remy’s voice didn’t irritate her as much; she even looked forward to his weekends, sometimes, just to have some time to herself to think. It just wasn’t a good time…

The house was slightly disorganized. Julien’s things were stacked in the corner of the kitchen, including a dirty old blue duffle and two of his jackets, another pack of his shaving supplies, a blanket and pillow, and a crate of “paperwork” he’d been vague about.

It had started again. The guest room of her house always had the door shut, now. Julien’s visitors went in and out, never pausing to make polite chitchat in the front room. Julien was furtive about his phone calls, always answering his cell on the first ring and scolding his callers about leaving him voice mail on Belle’s number.

He left money around, rolled up in a clip on his dresser in large bills. Belle still couldn’t park her own car in the garage; she fumed when one of the neighborhood kids keyed the paint.

He made peace offerings of groceries, but Julien ruined the gesture by loading her refrigerator with beer, and her cupboards with tequila. 

“Don’ bring dese in here wit’ Rene!”

“He ain’ gonna drink ‘em, petit,” he drawled, even though Rene eyed them occasionally whenever Bella went to get him some juice.

She lay awake at night and fumed. Back to square one.

She watched Rene crowing over his show, still seeing the baby in the boy whenever she heard his laugh or when he cuddled up to her at bedtime.

It was time to call Remy back.

 

~0~

 

Giddy. Remy felt _giddy_.

His uncle kept sparing him glances throughout the afternoon. Remy sang loudly to the radio as he worked on stripping the seats of a 1969 Mustang. He kidded with everyone in the shop and was full of back-sass to the simplest of questions.

His day went by fast. He headed out for his usual beef dip and almost wished he could call Logan to come out with him, but he was working through, and just wanted some fresh air.

He’d just swept back into the shop with his uncle’s Dr. Pepper when Philippe came out to meet him with a “While You Were Out” voice mail slip gripped in his oil-stained fingers. His expression was grim.

“Call Bella,” he suggested. “She didn’ sound like she be in much of a mood t’mess around.” Remy’s happy bubble burst.

 

“Shit,” he muttered as he set the styrofoam containers down on his uncle’s desk and reached for the phone. Bella’s phone rang four times before the machine picked it up.

“Might help if ya picked it up every now an’ again, chere,” he groused under his breath before the machine told him to wait for the beep. “Dis Remy. Call me back. Got de message from Oncle a minute ago. ‘Bout half past noon now…”

“Wait!” Bella snapped suddenly, cutting off the message tape and sounding out of breath. “M’here. Don’ hang up.”

“Whatcha up to, dat you be runnin’ fo’ de phone?”

“Wuz in de kitchen fixin’ Rene some juice. Been waitin’ t’talk wit’ Remy. Need ya t’come get Rene tonight.” 

“Pour quoi?” This was sudden, and Remy felt his hackles go up.

“Because he wants t’see his papa, why y’tink? Why you ask me why, Remy?”

“Sound awfully antsy ‘bout sumthin’, Belle.”

“Nothin’,” she insisted. “Jus’ need a break tonight, dat’s all.”

“Remy wants t’see Rene,” he announced easily. “Even if y’only let him when it’s convenient fo’ Bella, neva fo’ Remy, but yeah, petit, Remy wants t’see him. Wanna keep him til Sunday night.”

“Fine,” she dismissed, nervously plowing her fingers through her hair. Then it occurred to her.

“Got a betta idea. Gonna drop ‘im off wit’ you. Be home by seven.”

“Non. Let Remy jus’ pick ‘im up, petit…”

“Ya wan’ see him or not, Remy?” Her voice was impatient, and her heart thudded triple time in her chest. Irritation leached through the phone, making Remy’s lips flatten into a thin line.

“Ya wan’ Remy ta cooperate, Bella, den cut ‘im some slack. Seven’s fine. Gonna feed ‘im befo’ ya drop ‘im off?”

“Oui.” She was impatient now. Suddenly she heard Julien’s engine in the driveway. “G’wan. Gon’ call Remy when it’s time t’go, make sure y’home.”

“Fine.” He hung up without further salutation, shaking his head.

So he wouldn’t plan on another night of entertaining adult company. At least not so soon.

 

~0~

 

“Aleytys wanted me to ask you how it went with Colleen,” Scott mumbled around a mouthful of burrito. Logan winced and choked down the bite he was already working on.

“It went all right, I guess. She gave me her number. That was about it.”

“So no…y’know?”

“Eh. Nope.” Scott sighed and shook his head.

“Damn. Thought you two would’ve hit it off.”

“It ain’t her. Just didn’t have that ‘spark.’ She’s nice. I just ain’t in the mood fer ‘nice’ yet.”

“That tells me a lot,” Scott snorted as he dragged a chunk of beef through his picante sauce and popped it into his mouth. “So in other words, don’t fix you up with anyone unless they’re looking for a one-nighter or no strings?”

“Bingo,” Logan chimed in, even though it sounded more crass than he’d intended.

_Don’t set me up with anyone unless they have a southern drawl, know Cajun French and have great hands._

“You know Aleytys will just want to keep trying.”

“Might wanna tell her ta give it a rest.” Then he changed tacks. “Tell her thanks, anyway, Summers, and that I enjoyed the reception.” That seemed to pacify Scott.

“Heard from Silver?”

“Uh-uh. Not recently.”

They enjoyed the rest of their meals in relative silence and cleaned up the wrappers. They worked through the rest of the day, as Logan had promised in his note. They knocked out the wall and demo’ed the bathroom, taking up the old tile and leaving the shower stall and floor scraped bare. Making something with his hands sometimes ranked just below taking something apart. Logan’s shoulders stung from swinging the sledgehammer, but it was a good pain.

Scott wiped sweat from his brow, leaving behind streaky residue of plaster dust as he leaned on the handle of the shop broom. He eyed Logan speculatively.

“What, Summers?”

“Whatever happened to your old roommate, Walt?” Logan’s expression closed up and he ducked back into his toolbox to put away his wrenches.

“Saw him around town, once. That was about it.”

“That must’ve been fun. You broke the lease when you moved out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Gave up the deposit, but what else are ya s’posed t’do?”

Logan had never gone into much detail about his relationship with Walt to Scott. To his way of thinking, Logan was just “going through a phase.” To Logan’s way of thinking, Scott had his head in the sand. Hence, his definition of Walter as “Logan’s roommate.” Geez…

Scott contemplated the wood shavings a moment while he caught his breath, surveying their hard work. “Hey, I meant to ask you, who was the guy you were talking to at my stag party?”

“Eh? What guy?”

“The one you were playing pool with. Didn’t get much of an introduction from you.” Logan’s skin suddenly felt too tight as he struggled for some feasible to tell him.

“Met him at lunch one day.” He considered his words carefully. “He works on vintage cars.” Scott grinned in approval, and Logan mentally sighed in relief. “Just saw him hanging out at the pool tables. Played some nine ball. He’s a real hoot.”

It was too soon to talk about him. If there was one thing Logan hated, it was watching his friends “jump the gun.”

They’d done it with Carol. They’d done it with Silver. They’d DEFINITELY done it with Jean. Then later, with Jean-Paul…Logan scrabbled his fingers through the hair at his nape, clutching it at the memory.

Once Logan had dated anyone at least a month, that was it. Logan, to anyone else standing there looking, had to have found “The One.” He blamed himself for being such a stalwart bachelor for so long, unencumbered by car pools, minivans and Pampers on sale at Costco as the main reason everyone who cared about him urged him into coupledom. Whether he was looking for the right man or the right woman, love was a bitch.

Logan didn’t want to jinx it, no matter what “it” was.

 

~0~

 

“Papa, wanna have fried chicken,” Rene complained, tripping into the living room while Remy juggled three plastic sacks of groceries.

“Yer mama said y’already ate, petit.”

“Nuh-uh,” he argued, staring up at him with innocent, puppy dog eyes. Remy chuckled under his breath; he smelled the distinct aroma of Chef Boyardee on his son’s breath earlier when he bent to kiss him hello. “Chicken’s my favorite,” he claimed.

“Dieu! Got a hollow leg, non?” He eyed his son speculatively, tsking to himself that he’d missed too much of watching him grow up. Rene’s pants were mere centimeters from being highwater already, and his shoes were scuffed around the toes, likely to be outgrown in another month. His piquant face held the best of himself and Bella, even when he was fidgeting and hopping around to distract his father from protesting his request.

“I. Want. Chick. En,” he chanted rhythmically as he hopped in a circle around his dad, until Remy clapped a hand over his shoulder to make him stop.

“Mind de neighbors downstairs, homme,” he warned gently. “Papa’s gon’ make de chicken. Settle down an’ help ‘im put de food away.”

“Yay!”

Several minutes later, Remy’s hands were sticky with clumps of flour, corn meal and beaten egg as he carefully laid some drumsticks into the sizzling oil. Naturally, the phone picked that moment to jangle, when he couldn’t pick it up.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” he cursed, forgetting himself.

“Huh, Papa?”

“Nut’in, baby.” He hurriedly snatched a dishtowel off the refrigerator handle, scrubbing off as much chicken muck as he could within three rings. He grabbed the handset on the fourth and barked a breathless “Dis Remy?”

“Then I didn’t dial a wrong number,” Logan mused on a deep rumble. “Hey.”

“Hey, cher,” he replied, and his voice took on a soft timbre that recalled warm sheets and dusk.

“I caught ya in the middle of somethin’, didn’t I?”

“Chicken. Makin’ some fo’ Rene.”

“Ahh,” Logan murmured self-deprecatingly. Of course. He’d conveniently forgotten Remy was a dad. “I won’t keep ya, if it’s a bad time.”

“It ain’t. Ain’t sat down t’eat it yet. Won’t get ol’ Remy on de phone when dere’s good food on de table, ‘specially not Remy’s fried chicken.”

“S’nice ya get ta see yer boy.”

“Wuzn’t expectin’ it tonight,” he replied, and Logan caught the note of uncertainty in his voice. “His mama called and asked if Remy could come’n get ‘im.”

“That ain’t so bad. Bet he was thrilled for ya ta pick him up.”

“Uh-uh,” he argued, and again there was a slight edge to his voice. “Remy didn’ pick ‘im up. Bella brought him over. Dat was also outta de blue fo’ Rene’s maman.” 

 

Bella had stood nervously in his doorway when he answered it, and Rene launched himself at his father’s waist, as usual, while Bella muttered her usual injunctions about bed time and trips to the bathroom. He sensed the changes in her immediately. Bella was tightly wound, and there were new smudges beneath her eyes that she used to get when Rene was a baby, still young enough not to sleep through the night. He read tension in her, from her stance to her emotions themselves. Remy tried to put his finger on when she’d last seemed so…paranoid, he guessed, but he came up blank.

“Saved ya a drive.”

“Remy don’ mind drivin’, cher,” he reminded him. Logan rolled his eyes at himself, but enjoyed the smirk in Remy’s voice.

“Course ya don’t. Anyway, wanted ta thank ya for…coffee. That was nice.” 

“Welcome,” he offered. Logan heard different activities in the background, including the crackle of oil and running water. For one frustrating second, Logan hoped he hadn’t painted himself into a corner, or wandered into postcoital, small talk hell.

“The cocoa was nice, too.”

“Any time,” Remy rumbled back, and this time Logan felt a warmth in his gut. “Don’ make it too often when’m alone. Tastes betta when dere’s someone t’share it with.”

“Which car didja work on today?”

“Straight Flush.”

“Sounds cool.”

“Hush yer mouth, chere! She’s a work of art,” he drawled, making a slight face when a droplet of oil splashed his forearm while he turned the pieces with a fork.

“I don’t doubt it fer a second, kid. Rene seen it yet?”

“Non. Gon’ take him to de car show when it’s finished. Waitin’ on a special order set of rims and the seats. Had ‘em done in red an’ white leather.”

“Bet it’s sweet,” Logan marveled, picturing it. “Didja think that one up?”

“Oui. De cards be Remy’s second love, an’ his weakness.”

“Every man’s gotta have a weakness.” Logan peeled off his sweaty socks and took a three-point shot, chucking them into the hamper from his perch on the bed. He leaned back into the pillows with a long sigh of relief. Damn, that felt good.

“Jus’ get home?” Remy inquired.

“Yup.”

“Sound tired, cher.”

“Ripped the shit out of a bathroom. Looks like a train wreck.”

“Damn.” Remy pictured him dirty, gleaming with sweat, hair disheveled from plowing it from his brow with his fingers.

“Gonna remodel the whole thing. Gonna be sick of lookin’ at Scooter’s face by the time we’re through.”

“Scooter!” Remy whooped.

“Scott. Ya know, it was his wedding. And that was him at the bar, that night.” Remy sobered.

“Yeah. Rememberin’ dat pretty well. Seemed all right.”

“He is.” Logan wasn’t about to gush about Scooter. “Listen, I’ll let ya go. Enjoy yer time with yer boy.”

“Hold on, cher.” Logan liked the sound of that nickname, and he was glad he’d called to get his “fix.” Even if it had to be brief. “What about dis weekend?”

“Dunno. What’ve ya got in mind?” Logan scratched an itch on his chest and automatically glanced at his Far Side calendar hanging on the closet door. Two scribble-free white spaces occupied Saturday and Sunday.

Talk about possibilities.

“You seein’ de car at de show. Come see it wit’ me an’ Rene.”

“He won’t mind?” By way of reply, Remy held the phone against his chest, muffling it while he yelled into the living room.

“Rene, ya wan’ Papa t’take you to de car show, an’ bring M’sieu Logan?”

“Uh-huh! Let’s show ‘im Coyote Ugly, Papa!” he cheered back. His hazel eyes peered around the doorframe, back at his father as he peeked in on him. Remy grinned back and resumed talking into the handset.

“Dere you go. You goin’ wit’ us,” he informed him smugly. And that was that.

When they rang off, Logan continued to lie on his back, trying to suppress the smile that kept creeping back onto his face but failing miserably. Remy hummed a cheerful tune as he dished up the chicken and warned Rene that it was hot.

Both of them felt…giddy.

 

 

~0~

 

“Brush yer teeth, chere.”

“Want Spongebob,” Rene complained when Remy tried to hand him the spare blue toothbrush in the cup.

“Go get ‘im, den,” Remy suggested wearily. He was worn out. Rene was just getting his second wind, but he knew that a few minutes of the second DVD they rented would have him out like a light. Rene came back and proceeded to make a foaming mess of the toothpaste, resembling a rabid puppy as he chattered at his father.

“Papa, is Oncle coming wit’ us to the show?” Rene asked, dripping bluish spittle from his mouth as he turned on the cold spigot.

“Eh? Philippe?”

“Nuh-uh. Uncle Julien.” Remy stiffened and an ugly chill ran down his neck, raising gooseflesh.

“Pour quoi, mon fils?”

“Cuz he lives at our house, wit’ me an’ Maman,” he replied plainly, as though Remy should have known.

_Shit._ Shit, shit, shit.

“Um, Rene…when’d ya uncle Julien come t’stay wit’ you and Maman?”

“Been a while,” he offered matter-of-factly. “Oncle doesn’t like it when I play ‘round in his room. S’posed ta be my room, but I sleep in Mama’s, now.”

Remy cleared a lump in his throat loudly and mastered the urge to hit something. “Rene…Papa’s glad yer bein’ a good boy for Mama, y’hear?”

“I know, Papa!” Remy encouraged Rene to rinse away the foamy blobs of paste from the rim of the sink and to put his brush in the cup. “Papa?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do we hafta take Oncle?”

_Hell, no_. “Uh-uh. It’s you an’ Papa. S’gonna be our day, petit.”

“I’m gon’ draw a picture of Straight Flush!” Rene skipped off to his father’s bedroom in search of a spare pen and scrap paper. Remy deflated once he was gone, gradually leaning the heels of his hands against the vanity’s cool surface and hanging his head. He closed his eyes for a long moment, expelling a breath that felt like it was his last.


	7. Last I Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did Julien come back? What’s his connection to Remy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julien's a dick.

Remy peered into the fridge and took a quick visual inventory of his supplies. There was still easily enough to feed Rene and one dinner guest. Remy loathed heading to Safeway on the weekends, when the express lane even had ten people standing in line.

“Poppa, I need socks.”

“Look in your bag, chere.” Rene’s bare feet padded into Remy’s room and he heard him rummaging through his pack.

“I still can’t find ‘em, Poppa!” Remy rolled his eyes heavenward and wandered into the back. 

“I know dey gotta be in dere somewhere, Rene. Look. Here.” A rolled up pair of white sweatsocks were tucked inside a folded red sweater. “G’wan an’ finish getting dressed.”

Remy fixed a light breakfast, knowing Rene’s love of vendor stands at the shows, even if he wasn’t in the mood to shell out three dollars for one miserable frozen lemonade.

“When we gonna go get Mister Logan, Poppa?”

“He’s gonna meet us dere.”

“Wish Maman could come.”

“Dis ain’t her favorite t’ing t’do wit’ her day, petit.” And Remy wasn’t her favorite person to do it with, anymore.

The drive there was quick until they turned onto the off-ramp. Remy smothered a curse and smacked the steering wheel when he saw the long line of cars headed into the parking lot and paying for permits at the booth.

Logan had planned to meet him there around eight-thirty. Red digital numbers in his car’s clock said it was eight-fifteen already.

It took him twenty-five minutes to park and to usher Rene into the main auditorium. By that time he was already nervous and restless.

“C’mon, homme, where ya at?” Remy murmured as he scanned the crowd.

“Poppa, is dat him?” Rene pointed to a man whose back was turned while he bought himself a cup of coffee.

Sure enough, it was him. He caught a view of Logan’s profile as he fished out two crumpled dollar bills and accepted a steaming cup of brew. Even coffee was highway robbery in this joint.

He wore a comfortably distressed denim jacket and faded, broken-in jeans. A beige Stetson sat back slightly on his head; Remy admitted to himself that he was looking for his familiar, rumpled dark hair and that he almost didn’t notice him. He didn’t mourn the absence of the sharp suit he’d worn to the wedding, not much, at any rate. Logan was born to wear denim and he wore the hell out of it.

Before Remy could call to him, he turned and caught sight of them, grinning. Rene smothered a giggle. 

“He looks like a cowboy, Poppa!”

“Hey,” Logan rumbled as he approached, carefully guarding his coffee as he wove through the crowd. He set down the cup on a nearby armrest and gave Remy a one-armed hug, allowing him to hold onto Rene’s hand. Even the brief contact warmed him. He came away with the lingering scent of Remy’s aftershave clinging to his own clothing and didn’t mind. “Hi,” he greeted Rene. Rene nearly twisted his father’s arm off as he hid behind him, but he still peered around him occasionally to stare at Logan. Remy looked slightly embarrassed.

“Quit it,” Remy nagged. “Say hello t’monsieur Logan.”

“Hi,” he told him shyly. Logan gave him a soft smile.

“Yer dad told me ya like cars.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You can show me the ones your dad worked on and tell me all about ‘em, then.”

Rene started off wary of him at first, but gradually thawed as Logan gave him nearly as much attention as his poppa did, asking him silly questions about school.

“So who’s yer girlfriend?”

“I ain’t got a girlfriend! Girls are gross!”

“Does she know ya think they’re gross?”

“POPPA!” His lips twisted into a pout and he folded his arms in a huff.

“Might hafta stop on the way home and buy her flowers. Just make sure ya don’t pick yer nose. Girls hate that.”

“I don’t pick my nose!!”

“Just make sure ya don’t in a minute; ya don’t wanna get boogers on the pizza.”

“PIZZA!” Until that point, Remy had bitten his lip at the exchanges between them, but the last remark made him facepalm, and his shoulders shook.

Remy eventually excused himself as Logan listened to Rene chatter over how he was going to own a vintage Corvette like the restored one they were looking at that was valued at a mere $100,000.

“Gotta help Oncle fo’ a minute,” Remy explained. He knelt and took Rene’s arms briefly, giving him a solemn look. “Can ya behave fo’ m’sieur Logan?”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced up at Logan furtively. Logan made a goofy face. “I wanna see Oncle Philippe, too.”

“Later, chere, ‘kay?” He gave him a smacking kiss on his plump cheek. Logan cocked his eyebrow at him as if to say Where’s mine? Remy caught his look and smirked, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Later fo’ you, too, homme.” Logan’s face broke into a full grin.

When he met Philippe at the space reserved for Straight Flush, his uncle was snapping orders to two of his other employees from the shop. 

“Where’s Nate?”

“Bringin’ her in,” he explained. “Where’s Rene?”

“With my friend. Logan. De one ya met at de store.” Philippe nodded.

“Seemed all right.”

“He is, Oncle.”

“Fine wit’ just leavin’ mon neveu wit’ him?”

“Oui.” He scanned the crowd. Logan was only a few spaces away with Rene. Both of them looked delighted at the exhibition of hydraulics, particularly a purple Cadillac that hopped.

“When does Rene hafta head back to Bella’s?”

“Tonight.” Remy frowned thoughtfully. “Somet’in’ odd goin’ on wit’ Bella.”

“Eh?”

“She moved Julien back in.” Philippe paused in straightening the sign for their exhibit and putting up the velvet ropes.

“What’re ya fixin’ t’do ‘bout it, Remy!” His uncle’s pallor was florid and he exhaled deeply. Both men shared a weighty stare.

“Whateva I hafta do.”

“Don’ just roll over and wait for Bella and her frere t’have ‘im taken away because of bullshit. Julien’s no good. He’s never been good.” He clapped Remy on the shoulder. “Not fo’ you or Rene.” Remy felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

“Things ain’ de same now.”

“Dey might get worse if ya don’ keep an eye on Bella an’ de people she lets up in her home. Don’ let any of ‘em mess wit’ Rene. Spend some time over dere.”

“Easier said den done.” Remy remembered the chilly reception she’d given him the last time he showed up. He calculated reasons why he would visit beyond his usual trips to pick up his son.

As if reading his mind, Philippe suggested “Ya left a shirt over dere.”

“Eh?”

“A shirt. Ya left yer favorite shirt. Dat’s what you tell her.” Philippe dug in his wallet and pulled out a ten. “Root beer fo’ me.”

Remy brooded as he perused the vendor stalls, deep in thought. 

“Took your time showing up. It’s not time to sit on your ass yet,” Nate informed him, startling him. “Whatsamatter?”

“Nuthin’.”

“C’mon. This is what we’ve worked for!” Remy nearly spilled the sodas from the small cardboard drink carrier as Nate jerked him back toward the exhibition space.

Logan was already there, toward the back of an already milling crowd. 

“We need t’get ya a better spot den dis,” Remy informed him, handing Rene a small Sprite.

“We wanted ta wait for ya.”

“One of de perks of showin’ a car is gettin’ one of de best seats in de house.”

Remy was as good as his word. He snagged them folding chairs right in front of the dais. Over the revving of a powerful engine with more horses than a Kentucky derby, Logan listened to Remy’s uncle giving his spiel.

“Jean-Luc and Sons Racing and Auto is proud to present to you…Straight Flush!” Logan sucked in a breath and barely heard Rene chattering at him.

“My poppa made that! I told you!” He puffed out his narrow chest with pride and beamed, looking remarkably like his father. 

It was a work of art, just like Remy promised. Sparkling white paint. Red leather seats with white racing stripes inside. Chrome everywhere. A mural of fantasy characters garbed in black and red costumes with motifs of all four suits, including a Queen of Hearts that made Logan drool. The Ace had the same effect and reminded Logan of Remy, with his face painted with the same devil-may-care smile. 

The crowd loved it. Remy puffed up like a rooster and his uncle was as satisfied as a Cheshire cat. Philippe doled out business cards and brochures of custom work that they offered and booked several appointments in his shop.

The rest of the afternoon and most of the evening was filled with more roaring engines, a concert of some hip-hop artist neither Logan nor Remy listened to, and junk food that made Rene’s eyes bigger than his stomach. Logan was foot-sore from standing so long, but he had a great time.

When Rene lagged on the walk back toward the parking lot and he began to get cranky, Remy scooped up and wrapped his son’s arms around his neck. Logan watched them in admiration, and no lack of envy. It was nice being in Remy’s arms, even though their arrangement was tentative and undefined.

He wouldn’t need him. Logan didn’t want to put himself out there again. He sensed the same vibe from Remy, like wanting a red candy apple. You knew it was sweet, pretty and shiny, but you had to get through the rock-hard gloss to taste the tender fruit underneath. Rene was a great kid, but that added a new wrinkle to the equation. He had to let Remy come to him, if he wanted, and on his own terms in the interest of spending time with his son.

They made it to Remy’s car and his arms felt like they’d fall off from carrying his son out that far. He mumbled in protest as his father jostled him slightly, fumbling for the keys. By the time he tucked him into the backseat, the boy nodded off.

“He’s damn cute,” Logan remarked.

“Ain’t gonna argue wi’ dat. I’m biased.” He reached down to buckle him in. “Gonna take ‘im back in de mo’nin’ and save his momma a trip. Don’ want her t’put out on APB if I bring ‘im back late.”

“Can’t blame her.”

“It’s hard,” Remy sighed, and his eyes suddenly looked tired. The euphoria and excitement of the day was over, and Remy was spent. Logan saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the proud chest slightly deflated since the velvet ropes around their display were taken down. “Wanna see ‘im more often. But Bella an’ me, we don’ always see eye t’eye, and there’s bad blood between us. I wanna see my son, I gotta see more’n my fill of his mother.” Logan nodded and made a thoughtful noise.

“Kids were never out of the question fer me, but I never met a woman I wanted ta have any with.” Remy huffed, then smiled, making him look boyish and more like his son.

“Bella an’ I put de cart befo’ de pony. Rene was a ringbearer when we tied de knot, even though he was too little t’hold de rings.” Remy gently closed the passenger door and opened his side. “Dat’s de one t’ing ya need t’know ‘bout Remy. Maybe ya nevah found a woman ya wanted ta have kids wit, but me an’ Rene are a package deal. Had my share of watchin’ folks walk out my door dat didn’t understand dat.”

“What’s not ta understand, Rem?” Remy’s eyes glowed with intensity, and a wariness that made him wonder what happened in his life to put it there. Logan leaned his hips against the hood, arms folded. “That ain’t the kinda reason why I’d walk out the door. But I’ve walked out of my share.”

“Got a busy life.”

“Me, too.”

“Got a lot of things goin’ on.”

“I guessed that.” Logan pushed away from the hood and briefly blocked Remy from the car door. Remy gave him a curious look as Logan took his hand, squeezing it. They were a ways toward the back of the lot, and people were slowly milling out of the buildings and toward their cars, but it was dark outside. It was the closest thing that they had to privacy at the moment, but it would do. “So I’ll see ya when I see ya. If I see ya. No worries.”

“Don’t know if ya want de ones I got.”

“I know what I want. It ain’t that complicated, cuz I ain’t that complicated a man, Rem.” He was drawn to him, sharing his space, then his breath and heat as Remy inclined his head ever so slightly, meeting Logan’s mouth. _Oh, that mouth_. “I had a good time with ya tonight. You and Rene. If ya have the time, we can do somethin’ like this again.” Remy nodded, shaken by the effect of this firm lips whispering those words over his mouth as he kissed him. Logan coaxed him, gently nipping him until Remy surrendered, opening for him. It was languorous and hungry and just what he’d longed for all day.

He didn’t notice how strongly he was clinging to him, hands fisted in Logan’s denim jacket until he let him go.

Logan’s smile was lazy and smug as he eased out from between Remy and his car. “G’night.”

“Logan?” Remy murmured, before he could reason with himself, “call me tomorrow?”

“I was hopin’ ya’d ask,” he flipped over his shoulder as he walked away. It hit Remy then that he had been hoping, too.

Remy pulled out of the lot and wove his way carefully into swelling traffic. He didn’t feel the curious stare that was riveted on him since he left the exhibition suite.

*

Remy got an early start the next day over Rene’s complaints as his son dragged his feet. He assuaged him with his favorite breakfast of eggs and sausage and suggestions of how he could show his maman the souvenirs they picked up at the show. That changed his tune, making Rene babble a mile a minute while Remy repacked his bag. He felt a pang, missing him already even though he hadn’t dropped him off yet.

That turned to uneasiness as he drove to Bella’s, and he chided Rene to turn the radio down so he could think.

He pulled into her driveway and noticed the lawn was still in poor condition; it irked him, since her brother could certainly make the time to help her when he had no qualms about occupying her house.

Memories came rushing back to him of living with the shades drawn, and being vigilant of every car that drove up to the house, of every visitor who crossed the threshold.

Rene ran up the front porch while Remy retrieved his duffle and two action figures his son almost forgot on the front seat. Bella snatched open the front screen door before he could even try the knob.

“Aw, baby, c’mere!” she cried, hugging Rene so hard Remy winced. The boy didn’t mind, giving his mother a sloppy kiss.

“I got a pennant, an’ a shirt, an’ a cup, Maman!”

“Can’t wait t’see ‘em, baby,” she promised. She stood and let him inside, then leveled Remy with a sober look.

“Ya came back early. Thought I wuz drivin’ him back.”

“An’ I thought it wuz betta if I did it maself,” he shrugged. The air was heavy and uncomfortable between them.

“Den ya saved me de gas,” she reasoned, but she still didn’t look happy. “Look, Remy, I’m gonna get goin’ an’ take Rene wit’ me t’do laundry…”

“Am I gettin’ in Bella’s way?” She wrinkled her nose in annoyance and scratched her neck.

“Oui.”

“Tough,” he shrugged again. He remembered his uncle’s advice. “Lemme look around first fo’ somethin’ I forgot last time I came, Bella.”

“Ya didn’t say y’forgot anyt’in’ before, Remy.”

“Didn’t know til I got back home,” he said. His legs were already carrying him inside, edging past his wife’s slight frame. She panicked when she realized he was headed back toward Rene’s room.

“What could ya have left in dere, Remy?” She didn’t believe him.

“A shirt. Let him borrow one t’sleep in.”

“Ain’t had one of yers go through de laundry since then.”

“Maybe it ended up under de bed.” She reached for him, but he evaded her touch before opening the door, which still had a sign on it that read “Rene’s Room.”

The smell of cigarette smoke greeted his nostrils, permeating the furnishings inside. Remy spied a full ashtray near the window. The bed was unmade. A man’s large pair of work boots were beside the bed, and a pile of men’s clothes were folded in a pile atop the dresser, as though someone were living out of their suitcase. Grooming items were interspersed with toys.

A gold money clip, three lighters, and a small metal pipe lay on the bedside table. In plain sight. Remy burned with rage. 

“Motherfucker,” he hissed. His body was taut and stiff when Bella pulled on his sleeve to draw him back.

“Not so damned loud,” she muttered. “Don’ let Rene hear ya cuss like dat, y’hear?”

“Den why ya let Rene see his oncle live like dis? He told me, Bella. Said ‘Oncle Julien’ lives up in here, now.”

“Rene stays in my room,” she informed him. “Keeps ‘im from bein’ scared.”

“My son ain’ gotta be scared if his sonofabitch oncle ain’ stayin’ under dis roof, Bella!” Remy’s control was slipping. He felt her tension, tempered with indignance. Same old Bella.

“He needed a place t’live,” she told him. “They gave ‘im an early out fo’ good behavior.”

“He ain’ gotta stay here,” Remy insisted.

“Wuzn’t anyone else,” she retorted. “Had t’stay in de county of his arrest. He didn’t have anyone else.”

“So he has you.” It left a sour taste in his mouth.  
“Ya always have family.”

“Always have family. Bullshit.”

“G’wan, Remy. Jus’ go.”

“Uh-uh.” He stalked out of the room, brushing past her and stirring up a pile of Rene’s drawings lying on the hamper. She trotted after him, thankful that Rene was rapt in front of his cartoons.

He had to see. 

“Last I knew, ya didn’t risk yer family. Ya don’t let someone who brought trouble into de house come an’ stay. Promised me, Bella. Ya promised me.”

“Yeah? I promised? Don’ mean anyt’in’ what Remy promised me!” She was getting good and worked up, her voice growing higher and more belligerent as they made their way outside. Remy had one destination in mind. His long strides were making Bella have to run after him.

“Promised me fo’ betta o’ fo’ worse,” she accused sharply. “Promised t’forsake all others, Remy!”

Her words bit him, but he couldn’t let her distract him from what he needed to see.

“Got de remote fo’ de door?” he said simply.

“Non. Fuck off, Remy.”

“Don’ talk t’me dat way, petit,” he warned. His dark eyes were firebrands, narrowing dangerously as he turned on her. “Don’ act like none o’ dis matters.”

“I don’ hafta make any excuses t’you, Remy,” she said. Bella folded her skinny arms beneath her breasts, making him notice again how wan and thin she was. Now he knew it was from more than simple stress.

“Make ‘em to a judge, den, petit.” He grasped the handle of the garage door, noticing that it was locked. He dug back in his pocket for his car keys. 

“What’re ya doin’, Remy? What de hell do ya have those…hey!” He shook loose the garage door key and jammed it in, giving it a savage twist. He hoisted up the door quickly, listening to it rattle open.

A stripped car. Power tools Bella never bought herself. Parts lying in open boxes. All of these greeted him and made a shiver run down his spine.

“Guess dis is all I needed t’see,” he murmured.

“Remy, what’re ya gonna do!” He backed away and ignored her, heading for the house.

“Rene already had breakfast. Now, where is dat sonofabitch?”

“Out; don’ know when he’s comin’ back. He didn’t say.”

“Course he didn’t say.” His laugh was ugly and hollow. “Ain’ learned t’expect dat by now?”

“I don’ always know when he’s comin’ back,” she admitted, throwing out her hands. “Look, jus’ go, Remy!”

“Like hell.”

“I’ve got him today.”

“Ya’ve always got him. Might not make me happy, petit, but I’ve been followin’ de rules an’ bein’ a good boy, rollin’ over like Rover. Tell me sometin’,” he wondered. “My checks goin’ t’feed Rene, or t’Julien?”

“What kind of question’s dat!”

“Answer it, Bella.”

“I spend it on Rene!” she spat. “Don’ accuse me of doin’ otherwise.”

“Don’ gimme reason t’think o’terwise.”

“I ain’t gonna talk about dis wit’ you.” She tried to brush him off. He was so tempted to reach out and shake her, but he merely followed her, dogging her heels back to the house.

“Gonna hafta talk about it wit’ me at some time, Bella. Dat, or talk to a judge. Take yer pick.” She spun on him then.

Her blue eyes were dilated and watery, and he was almost – not quite – undone. Her fists clenched and he stepped back as she flailed them at him.

“He’s. My. Son,” she pronounced through her teeth, shaking. “He’s…all I have.”

Her rage mirrored his own, but she gave hers full volume in front of the neighbors as her fists connected with his flesh, hitting him wherever they landed. Her cries were choked and anguished.

“Stop it, Belle!” he hissed, catching and snatching at her hands.

“You wanna talk shit! Huh? Act like ya never did any wrong? How yer so much better den me?”

“Enough!” He wiped her hands off of him, finally catching her wrists and giving her a hearty shove backward.

“MAMAN!” Bella sobered and reached up to straighten her ponytail; Remy cleared his throat. His son’s amber eyes were confused and frantic as they peered through the screen door. 

“S’okay, baby,” she told him as she hurried back to the porch. “Come an’ tell yer daddy goodbye.” Remy’s lips thinned; her words were loaded.

He felt even smaller as he climbed the porch steps and saw the protective way Rene hugged his mother’s waist. He’d never struck Bella, or Rene. Ever. But his anger hadn’t faded yet. He was still seeing everything through a red haze. He needed a cigarette and a shot of something eighty proof.

“Gonna call ya soon, petit.”

“You mad at Momma?”

“Rene, sometimes…naw. Ain’t mad at Momma. Jus’ got so sad dat I hafta tell ya goodbye. Gonna miss you.” He gestured to him; Rene released his mother and hurried to him, hugging him hard enough to prick his eyes. Remy didn’t spare Bella another glance as he breathed in the scent of his son’s hair. “M’sorry.”

“Scared me.”

“Didn’t mean it.”

“Tell Momma yer sorry.”

“I am,” he told him, and Remy looked pointedly at Belladonna. She sighed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Momma’s sorry, too, petit,” she murmured softly. “Okay?” Rene nodded his assent and leaned up to kiss his father’s cheek.

But once Rene was ensconced inside, both adults wore dark looks. Remy left without another word.


	8. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy tries to avoid treading a dark path once more, and missteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from the song by Johnny Lang. I LOVE that song.

Logan hated laundry day.

His work clothes were about to walk out of the hamper, crawl downstairs to the Laundromat and fling themselves into the heavy duty machine if he didn’t do something about it. He avoided punishing himself, not bothering to examine any of his clothing by smell, even items that landed on the floor while they were still clean. All of it went into the baskets, barely sorted. He hefted them, one stacked on the other, and shouldered his way out the door. His small pouch of quarters created a bulge in his pocket.

The breeze was inviting, making him wish he didn’t have to spend time inside. He rode down the street with the windows down, not caring that Lulu needed a beauty treatment. Once he washed his clothes, he could wash her. His favorite car wash had a vacuum hose; he could clean out the mounds of dust and grit left from his work boots.

He was unabashed as he loaded his dark colors into the machine, pouring in Febreze-scented Tide with a heavy hand. He knew his work clothes looked like heck. A couple college girls still young enough to be jail bait peered up at him from their history texts and diet sodas and wrinkled their noses at his stained shirts.

Logan sat near the television and listened to the game while he checked his voice mails and texts.

No calls from Remy. That made four days in a row. But he wasn’t counting. Honestly.

Logan had left him one voice mail. One. It was Remy’s turn to be “it.” He knew it was childish, but he was who he was. Logan was old enough that the prospect of chasing someone didn’t appeal to him so much anymore. He needed someone who wouldn’t play games.

Yet the Cajun’s eyes tempted him – no, invited him – to play every time they connected. And they had connected.

He sighed, then rose to grab a Power-Ade from the vending machine. He kissed more of his pocket change goodbye as a niggling thought pulled at him.

He could simply go see him.

_Nah_.

His body argued with him. _What would it hurt_?

Better yet, why not invite him to his place?

Logan took stock and decided that yes, he was ready. Why not?

Weeks ago, he would have read off a miles-long list of why-nots, all of them beginning with Walt. Some of his clothing had still smelled like him, and his pillows, for a while, after he’d come by one night…Logan had been vulnerable, and it cost him. Despite a night of hungry, needy sex, he laid awake in the dark, Walt’s blond hair tucked beneath his chin and his long legs dangling off the end of the bed. Logan regretted it immediately. Their goodbyes the next day were bitter. Logan felt like shit.

He’d put away old mementos. Deleted old emails from his computer and erased penciled-in contact numbers from his black book.

His home was his sanctuary, too personal and dear to be squandered. His bills were neatly tucked into a rack by the kitchen phone. He bought honey nut Cheerios with no one to lecture him to eat oatmeal or soy milk or any other such crap. He didn’t have to share the remote. No one else occupied his favorite leather recliner.

Most of all, he didn’t feel smothered.

…then again, why did it bother him that he was suddenly annoyed that no one tried to smother him, lately?

No. Logan didn’t want to lose himself in the process of loving someone else.

He imagined Remy’s smooth voice filling the space and his long, lean legs sprawled on his couch. He contemplated what he could feed him. Logan’s refrigerator was appallingly bare.

*

 

The second cigarette didn’t help him any more than the first.

Julien. Motherfucker.

Seeing the careless disarray of Rene’s room, contaminated by his presence took Remy back to a bad place.

They’d almost lost Rene. Remy’s face was dark with remembered anger and helplessness.

An expired lease pushed them down the road to ruin. If Remy had to name the one point in his life where it went to hell, it was the day he’d decided not to sign on at his old two-bedroom unit for another year.

The place had been a dump. Their landlord, Nate, was a hard man with flinty eyes and a tight fist who refused to patch a big hole in the drywall left by the previous occupant’s head during a party gone wrong, or to fix leaky faucets and the broken garbage disposal. Remy thought he enjoyed toying with them.

Remy walked in on Belladonna as she was nodding her way off the kitchen phone, murmuring several “mm-hms” and “oui’s” into the handset. Her eyes lit up as she saw him, and she raised her cheek for his kiss. Her breath smelled like the root beer she’d been drinking and she didn’t even bat away his hand as he groped her breast, persuading her to hang up.

That was how it was back then. Easy. Sweet.

The young couple was dirt-broke. Belladonna Boudreaux dropped out of her first year of college, claiming it was a waste of time when so many of her friends who had degrees were working at Starbucks. She decided to cut out the middle man. Remy knew it was because she had problems paying attention but didn’t argue with her.

He loved her beyond reason. It consumed him.

He backed her toward the wall and took the handset from her, cradling it as he gave her a more proper hello. She giggled beneath his lips, then opened for him. Her fingernails scraped his scalp as she clutched handfuls of his hair. Her sigh resonated through him, bringing him in sync with her satisfaction.

They came up for air long enough for her to lay her idea on him. “Got a place we might be able ta have.”

“Have ya now.”

“Stop that…” she muttered futilely as his hand crept beneath her shirt. “Got a three-bedroom lined up on a quiet street.” Remy drew back and frowned.

“Three? Don’ make much sense when we can’t even afford two, petit.”

“It does when ‘three’ makes ‘we,’ chere. Talked t’my brother. He might move in wit’ us for a while.” Emotions crept over Remy’s features one at a time. He cradled Bella thoughtfully as she plied his neck and face with kisses.

“How much rent can he afford ta pay?”

“Half,” she grinned, enjoying his look of surprise.

“Naw!”

“Yeah, baby! So whaddya think? Are ya up fer packin’ our bags?”

He had his misgivings, but Remy was out the next morning before work looking for broken down boxes behind apartment dumpsters and outside the shop. It was too good to pass up.

Bella made them a surprisingly lavish dinner of shrimp cocktail, Spanish rice, pinto beans and ceviche over crisp tostadas with crumbles of Casero. Julien brought the Corona. That was the first mark in his favor.

It wouldn’t be the only one. Julien loved cars. In no time, Remy was uncapping his bottle for him and ushering him into his favorite chair. They ate the delicious food and joked all night while Bella told outrageous stories of his childhood. If Julien was occasionally protective of his sister, it was subtle but understandable. Every now and again, his lips would tighten if Remy became too familiar with Bella, making him remove his hand from her hip and chasten his kisses.

They were out of their unit and moving boxes into the spacious townhouse-style, upstairs apartment that had a view of the pool. They didn’t have to throw a yard sale or consolidate their belongings to a bare minimum; Julien hardly owned anything aside from his clothing and a few bedroom items. He lived like a man who detested putting down roots.

He was as good as his word. Julien paid half the rent and made himself scarce. The first three months were idyllic. Bella’s family made periodic visits, usually entering without knocking, a quirk that Remy quickly grew used to but not fond of. Slowly they added to the sparse furnishings, buying things on credit once their funds were less strained. Julien contributed generously enough and offered no complaint when Bella sat down and divided up the utility bills among them. He never complained about being broke, despite only working part-time in the automotive department of Sears.

Bella and Remy married in September in a cozy traditional ceremony.

Julien watched him during the reception, almost too closely. Every time Remy turned around, he found Julien’s dark eyes following him. He raised his glass to the groom in salute. Remy smiled and winked back, but he shook off an uneasy flush. Bella scooted him onto the dance floor, distracting him. But he couldn’t focus himself entirely on his bride.

Bella hardly noticed. It was her day.

Some days found Julien returning home earlier than Remy expected. He’d grab himself a Corona and head back to his bedroom to smoke and watch his tiny TV. Remy noticed he began keeping to himself. If Bella noticed, she didn’t mention it.

“Don’ fret ‘bout mon frere,” she chided him as she stirred dinner in the frying pan. “Sometimes, he jus’ keeps ta himself.”

Yet he didn’t. Julien began to have a slow trickle of visitors during the evenings. Typically they were male. Many of them claimed to know Julien from the automotive department when Remy inquired.

They left Remy feeling unsettled and uncomfortable. They barely made small talk even when they were waiting for Julien to emerge from his room. Often they would watch a little sports in the living room, but they ended up back in Julien’s room, nodding a terse goodbye to his sister and brother-in-law.

Then there were the phone calls. The voice mail was full of hang-ups. Julien’s friends only wanted to know when he would be back or if he was carrying his cell. They never parked in the uncovered parking by the apartment. Remy came home most days and saw them trekking from the street outside the complex. It puzzled him.

Ignorance was bliss.

Remy came home sick one day; Philippe’s injunction to go straight to bed still rang in his ears as he trudged upstairs.

The kitchen was a mess, but he ignored it. Empty cases of Corona overflowed from the trash and all of the snack bags laid empty on the counter, dropping crumbs.

Music.

Remy heard it throbbing down the hallway as he made his way past the bathroom. Julien was singing at the top of his lungs in the shower, filling the air with the scent of his Axe body soap, but it didn’t cover the odd stench floating around Remy.

“What de hell?” Remy fanned the air impatiently, wrinkling his nose. The odor was pungent, a burning smell that reminded him of the incense he hated whenever he took Belladonna to the farmer’s market. It was also reminiscent of wet straw. Remy was afraid that the neighbor’s would complain about it, so he went into Julien’s room to open a window.

The room was a shambles.

The smell was strongest there, making Remy’s puffy eyes water and his stomach churn. The floor was littered with discarded clothing, some of which didn’t look like Julien’s. Remy didn’t have a problem with that; his brother-in-law obviously wasn’t as pure as the driven snow. Men had needs.

But the more he looked, the more his stomach twisted, making him break out in a cold sweat.

Piles of money lay atop the dresser. Large bills. The bedside table was strewn with burnt-out matchsticks and three lighters.

Beside his clock were two burnt stubs of what looked like hand-rolled cigarettes. They leaked gray ash, but the ground leaves were a strange shade of sage green.

“Shit,” Remy hissed. He decided against opening the window, but again noticed how dark the room was.

Tin foil was taped over the windows, even though there were perfectly good Venetian blinds in the room. Remy stumbled through the piles of clothing and slowly turned around.

How much had Bella skipped telling him?

“Whaddya need?” Julien barked behind him. Remy’s throat seized in surprise. He spun on him, eyes wild.

“What’re ya doin’ in here, homme? What’s dis?” He waved to the mess on the bedside table. “What’ve ya been doin’?” Julien’s appearance embarrassed Remy.

He lounged indolently in the doorway; his towel was draped around his hips, slung low enough for Remy to see the dark happy trail and the crevice of his groin. Julien huffed and his lip curled in a lopsided smirk. He was unabashed and dripping, but Remy could only stare, unnerved.

“See sometin’ ya want?”

“Naw,” Remy replied. “Jus wuzn’t expectin’ dis.” He threw up his hands. “Why?” Julien shrugged.

“Ain’t nuthin’,” he offered. He stretched languorously, still heedless of the towel. He scratched his stomach, again drawing Remy’s attention where he didn’t want it to go.

Belladonna was beautiful with blonde, wholesome good looks. Julien wasn’t hard on the eyes, either, but he was a horse of a different color. His skin was ruddy and tanned, and he was tall and lean. His forearms were well muscled from working on cars, much like Remy’s, but he was rangier, giving him a hungry look. His eyes were so dark they appeared black. His sable brown hair was slicked back from his face and clung to his neck in damp streamers.

Julien and Bella had almost the same mouth, wide and full with a deep notch in the upper lip. Julien’s eyes were slightly bloodshot and drowsy. The bed sheets were rumpled, as though he’d just rolled out of them. Or like someone else had…

“How long have ya been at dis?”

“A while. Jus’ every now an’ again.”

“Bullshit.”

“Got a problem? Didn’ seem like ya minded it when I paid rent on time,” Julien pointed out, folding his arms over his chest and pushing away from the wall.

“Lemme out, homme,” Remy snorted, annoyed.

“Non. Seriously. Ain’ got a problem wit’ de money I give Bella, huh? Do ya now, Remy?”

“Makin’ an honest livin’?” Remy shot back. 

“Jus’ helpin’ out.”

“Christ, Julien! Whaddya t’ink, de neighbors ain’ gonna figure it out? Got a line of folks comin’ an’ goin’ through dat front door? Place smells like shit!” he swore. Remy was flushed with anger. “Ya always into dis? Back when Bella asked ya ta move in? An’ she’s okay wit’ dis?”

Julien sobered. “I don’ tell Bella everytin’. Ain’ no reason ta start now.”

“Sonofabitch,” Remy hissed. He backed down and raked his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes.

“Look, mec…she don’ know ev’rytin’,” he hedged, suddenly nervous. “She…Bella don’ know I use. Jus’ dat I sell.”

“T’ink dat’s so much better, neh?”

Julien shrugged. He moved toward Remy. He backed away instinctively, but Remy was compelled by those unsettling dark eyes.

“Get dressed!” he hissed.

“Ain’ in a big hurry,” he sniffed. His proximity made Remy edge backward, toward the window. He didn’t know why he didn’t try to move around him, for the door.

“Gettin’ a lil familiar, non?”

“S’my room.”

“It’s a pigsty.”

“I’ll tell dat ta the cleanin’ lady.”

“Ya can’t live like dis.”

“I’m a grown-ass man. No one’s tried ta tell me how ta live since I wuz sixteen,” he scoffed. His eyes flicked over Remy. He could smell Julien’s shampoo and the faint residue of the grass he’d smoked still in his hair.

He couldn’t stop looking at his mouth.

“Might be betta fo’ all of us if we didn’t live under one roof anymore, homme.”

“Ain’t any reason ta change anytin’.”

“Plenty of reason right here.”

“An’ what? G’wan back ta dat dump ya’ll lived in before?” Julien chuckled and shook his head. His voice was dark as syrup. “I can think of ten good reasons why ya don’ need ta go anywhere, Remy. Top one on de list is dat I can see yer rock-hard right now.” Remy’s eyes dilated. He swallowed sharply and his mouth was dry.

He mustered his focus and shoved him back. Shock mingled with anger. Julien’s slick, cool skin burned him, but he also felt how solid and hard he was.

“Got a lotta brass tellin’ me dat, homme! Outta yer fuckin’ mind!”

“Dat right?”

“Case it escaped ya, mec, I tied de knot wit’ Bella. Ya ain’t my type.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“I don’ t’ink yer thinkin’ clearly right now, Julien. Ain’ gonna tell Bella about dis, cuz it never happened, understand? Dis never happened.” He pronounced it with finality, but Remy’s heart was pounding its way out of his chest. Julien’s eyes challenged him.

“Dat’s how ya t’ink it’s gonna be, eh?”

“Ain’t any room for argument. M’done.” His scowl never wavered. “Put some clothes on!” he snapped.

Julien’s laugh mocked him.

They stared each other down. Remy’s breathing was choppy and adrenaline was still running through him. He attempted to leave the room again. Julien feinted, conveniently stepping into his path and invading his space. That slick, firm chest bumped Remy again.

“Ain’t in the mood t’get dressed yet. M’ all clean, Remy.”

“I don’ give a fuck, get back, mec!” He slapped Julien’s hand away when he reached for his neck. He dodged each grab for him that Julien made for him until Julien launched himself into him, knocking him back into the sill. Remy was easily stronger than Julien was in his muddled state, but Julien was quick and knocked him off balance. He grabbed and tugged at Remy’s wrists, trying to hold them back above his head. Even when Remy jerked one limb loose, Julien’s hot mouth dove at his vulnerable throat. Remy roared in defiance. “GET OFF, YA FUCK!”

He tripped Julien’s feet out from under him and pushed him back. Even as Julien fell, his dark laughter filled Remy’s ears, and he clung fast to Remy’s fleeing legs. He weighed him down and dragged him back until Remy’s knees buckled.

Remy’s loose jeans gapped at his waist, giving him a draft as Julien attempted to pull them off. He experienced anger mixed with shock. Julien’s shabby carpeting was giving his hands rug burn. Remy flipped himself to take umbrage, to hit him, but Julien whistled between his teeth.

“Mmm,” he muttered. “Damn, mec, dat’s gotta hurt.” He was right. Remy’s hard-on hadn’t subsided from their rough struggle. If anything, it throbbed even more from the tension in the room. He wouldn’t admit that Julien’s proximity, his male scent mingled with shampoo and the heat of his body was responsible.

Julien’s towel was gone, and the evidence of his arousal buffeted Remy’s thigh as he crawled over him and started fighting with Remy’s clothing. His button-fly was jerked open. Remy punched him squarely in the temple.

Julien looked surprised, then froze Remy’s blood in his veins with his glare. He swung out and backhanded Remy, knocking him back. Remy reeled. Pain exploded across his jaw, distracting him from Julien’s busy hands that were jerking his jeans down his thighs.

“Guess I know why Bella picked you,” Julien groaned, reaching for the smooth column of rosy flesh. Remy’s skin felt silky and hot in his grip, which was unrelenting. He squeezed him and pumped, making sounds of satisfaction in his throat.

Remy’s body reacted fiercely to his touch. His legs kicked out and he struggled to flip over and buck him off.

“Non!” Julien barked, slamming a fist into the center of his chest.

“Sonofabitch!” Remy hissed, but Julien never released him. If anything, he’d begun pumping him faster, longer, in a snug grip that felt too much like his own. “Son…of a…” His voice died. Remy’s breathing hitched in his chest as Julien stroked the thick vein on the underside of his dick with his thumb.

“Ya’ve done this before, man. Don’ try lyin’ t’me,” Julien purred as he splayed Remy’s legs open further, jerking his jeans around his ankles. Remy’s taut, fair skin was exposed. Fine dark hair covered long, toned and muscular legs. Remy tried crawling back on his elbows, away from Julien, but he had him where he was most vulnerable. He could risk hurting himself…

His body had other ideas. He felt his flesh grow hot in Julien’s hands and all the blood rushed from one head to the other. His hips arched and bucked from the floor as Julien pumped him again and again.

“Aw, Gawd,” Remy breathed. His gaze grew hazy for a moment, then his red-on-black eyes snapped open wide as Julien eased himself over his body. He caught his own dick in the ring of his fist, fitting it against Remy’s. He thrust against him, groaning at the feel of him. Remy ignored his squallid surroundings and the cloying aroma of pot smoke and let lust consume him. Julien’s breath steamed his lips, and Remy leaned up into his kiss. It was hungry, even obscene, invading him.

He shouldn’t have wanted it; the concept preceded and overrode that he shouldn’t have done it.

Julien had him naked and crying out, fists twisted in the sheets as he pounded into him. They fucked and drained each other until they were limp. Remy didn’t lounge long in Julien’s rumpled bed. When he rose, he was trembling. Julien’s dark eyes cracked open and he watched him as Remy fumbled with his clothes.

“Ya don’ hafta…”

“I know. I ain’t sayin’ a damn thing, mec.”

Remy’s euphoria vanished as soon as he closed the bedroom door after him.

_Belladonna._

What the fuck had he _done?_

Cold dread suffocated him. He didn’t hear another peep from Julien during the little time he spent in the apartment that afternoon; he lay passed out in his room.

From then on, they engaged in a bizarre song and dance. Remy willfully turned a blind eye to Julien’s “business.” Belladona assumed that their living arrangement continued as long as it had out of convenience. 

“We get along just fine, peas in a pod,” she answered to anyone who asked about how the married couple could live with her brother for so many months.

If only she knew.


	9. Poor Dog a Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan takes another small step toward intimacy and shares his space. Things get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect lemon in this chapter. (gee, no surprise there)

Milk. That was a no-brainer. Logan grabbed a half-gallon carton of two-percent set it in the basket of his cart.

Eggs. He only ate so many per week, but this time he bought the eighteen-count. Remy liked to cook, so Logan wanted to open up his lover’s options when he came over. Having food to eat was one thing, but having ingredients to cook was a whole different feat.

Bagged salad. Broccoli. Apples. All of these, Logan enjoyed anyway, easy to rinse, cut, dress and eat. Campbell’s chicken. Ragu. Spaghetti. Cereal. Staple foods.

A loaf of honey wheat bread he’d enjoyed on his tuna sandwich the week prior, worth getting again. Ground beef, two pounds for a change instead of one. Ritz crackers. Popcorn. Swiss Miss. He knew it was an addiction of Remy’s; even the box evoked the memory of the night of Scott’s wedding, how Remy’d helped him “unwind.”

“Shit,” Logan muttered. “Listen ta me, I must be whipped.”

He continued to second-guess his selections, wavering over when he had enough.

More disturbing, in his mind, was the cleaning binge that overtook him a few hours prior. It was…like he was _nesting_.

Every floor was mopped to a shine. He’d even vacuumed beneath the couch cushions, disinfected his refrigerator shelves and cleaned beneath his bed. He couldn’t explain this urge to…what? Impress Remy? Welcome him?

A pack of drumsticks. Brown sugar. Worcestershire sauce. A bulb of garlic. Onions. More odds and ends.

The housewares aisle was next. Sponges. Toilet paper. Kleenex. A couple of cheap food storage containers. Tin foil. Paper towels. Dish soap, since he was down to the last squirt.

Health and beauty aisle. Toothpaste. Mouth wash. Logan came across a bottle of KY and decided, why not?

He rounded off the trip with a six-pack of Molson. Good enough. Now he wasn’t giving Old Mother Hubbard a run for her money.

Logan kept checking his watch over the next two hours. He knew they agreed on six. He half-wondered if he was bringing Rene, and if he should’ve rented a DVD for him. Surely Remy would let him know if their dinner date was going to be family-friendly.

How did Logan feel about that?

To Logan’s credit, Rene liked him. That much he gathered from the car show, if the way he talked his ears off was any indication. It not only was the first time he’d dated someone with kids, but it was a man. How did Remy broach the subject of his friend Logan being “more than a friend?” 

Logan gave in and hit the rental store after all, picking up a couple of Disney movies. Worst case scenario, Remy would have a good laugh at his selections if he came alone. He topped the pile with “The Godfather,” remembering that Remy enjoyed that film.

All that was left was to wait. And to pretend it wasn’t killing him.

*

 

Out of habit, Remy cooked. 

Logan was on tap to host dinner at his place, but he hated coming over empty-handed. He packed enough beans and rice for two and decided to bring the whole pot of asparagus, since he’d only cooked one bunch.

Excitement bubbled inside him. Despite the stress of his week, he still felt giddy.

The pragmatic side of him nagged that it was just sex. Did he like him? Certainly. What wasn’t to like? He was easy to be with. Therefore, there wasn’t anything to “figure out” between them. No real questions or games to play. Were there. No.

The biggest obstacles were the charged silences that cropped up between them from time to time. Remy caught Logan watching him sometimes, questions in his eyes, but he resumed his easy banter and lopsided smiles, dispensing with any need for concern.

It made Remy crave. On some level, he wanted to get inside him, know his essence, more than what just “made him tick.”

It wasn’t something he could put into words, it was early days yet, and he was afraid of being rebuffed. Plain and simple.

But in the meantime, dinner. Probably sex, but dinner for now.

There was Rene. It had been a risk, introducing them. Remy liked everything in his son’s life to remain steady and consistent. No guessing games of who would step up to the plate and love him, as well as his son. It took a special person to realize accept that no matter how much they loved Remy, they would play second fiddle to Rene.

And it was awkward. Remy coordinated his schedule of visitation around his love life so that the twain would seldom meet. His son was observant; little rabbits had big ears, too. How could he explain that Daddy was having a sleepover that didn’t involve building a fort in the living room or telling scary stories?

Rene put two and two together, despite Remy’s silent wish that he could remain innocent. His mother and father weren’t going to live under the same roof anymore. His mother had grown-up friends who she kissed and hugged and had sleepovers with, so it made sense that Daddy would, too. It didn’t fall to him to question that in both cases, those grown-up friends were men, for both of them.

The hardest part was letting Rene like whomever he brought home. He didn’t know how long someone would stay in his life, but it wounded Remy a little whenever it fell to him to tell Rene that So-and-So “won’t be going to the movies with us anymore.” He’d sooner walk over broken glass than disappoint his son, but it was a fact of life. Relationships involved risk.

Logan had exceeded his hopes. The car show was a great chance to watch them interact and buddy around. It warmed him, but he didn’t want to expect too much, too soon.

Bella was fine with keeping Rene with her that weekend. He squelched guilt about it when she said that they planned to visit her mother; out of the goodness of his heart, Remy traded cars with her and offered to fill up her tank. 

Bella had expressed that Julien had kept himself scarce, but Remy’s mind wasn’t put to rest. 

He just needed a chance to flesh Logan out. Time alone, he reasoned.

His lecture to himself that he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it fell on his own deaf ears. He shaved, showered and took pains with his nails, scrubbing, trimming and filing them to rid them of the damage done by motor grease. Sure, he wasn’t anxious, or anything…

And off he went. Remy whistled the last tune he played on Bella’s CD deck on his way upstairs to Logan’s one-bedroom unit. The complex wasn’t fancy, and Remy had no problem following his directions.

He experienced a brief flutter in his stomach as he waited at the door. He knocked louder than he knew he needed to out of nerves.

He knew it was Logan’s apartment by his footfalls; Logan walked heavy. 

It sounded like he was in a hurry.

“One sec,” he grumbled from the other side of the door. Remy grinned.

“Hey,” he greeted him easily. He noticed the containers in Remy’s hands. “Whatcha got?”

“A coupla sides. Whaddya have planned?”

“Meat. I’m all about the meat.”

“Den it sounds like we got dinner, mec.”

Right away, Remy felt at home. The apartment was neat as a pin, but still had a lived-in feeling, a certain warmth that reminded him of Logan. The living room was sparely furnished. Logan only had one side table aside from the coffee table, topped with a fat black lamp with a muslin shade. A tall chrome floor lamp stood in the corner, evening out the light balance of the room. The couch was overstuffed and well broken-in, upholstered in forest green plush. Its black throw cushions matched a comfortable-looking recliner. A football blanket was folded and draped over it. There wasn’t much other decoration to the room. Logan had a bookcase loaded with paperbacks and DVDs along the far wall and was lucky enough to have a fireplace.

Logan reached out and took the containers from him, beckoning him inside. Remy grinned once his hands were freed.

“Make yerself at home-mmmph!” Remy pounced, cupping Logan’s nape and dipping down to cover his lips, devouring them. Logan rumbled his approval, almost stumbling back, and he tightened his grip on the dishes. They didn’t come up for air for several long seconds; Remy’s fingers clutched at Logan’s thick hair, enjoying the texture and his warm skin. He let him go, briefly rubbing his jaw with his thumb.

“One-track mind,” Logan muttered, but a grin toyed with the corners of his mouth.

“If Remy’s nice an’ does the dishes, homme…eh?” He winked. Logan laughed and shook his head, leading him into the kitchen.

Logan already had the dishes out of the sink and the counters were immaculate. Like the living room, what you saw in the kitchen was what you got, plain and simple. Logan hung simple green, tab top curtains in the window. A handful of magnets from different stores and restaurants around town decorated his refrigerator. He had a tiny television and radio on his shelf beside the refrigerator, and a box for Logan’s bills was anchored to the wall. His dinette set only had two chairs. Their green cushions matched the curtains and the potholder set hanging over the stove. Logan’s telephone was the kind with large, easy to push buttons, something Rene would approve of, he mused. A Nicks coffee mug filled with pencils sat beside it, along with a rainbow stack of Post-Its.

Logan set the dishes down on the counter and tended to the meat. He rinsed the thawing steaks in cold water and laid them in a metal bowl. Remy watched him cover them in bottled marinade and made a thoughtful sound.

“How ya gonna do ‘em?”

“Grill,” Logan explained. He nodded to a small, indoor gas grill. “Man’s best friend, right here.” 

They chatted and joked while Logan prodded and turned the meat. The sizzle and pop of the steaks underscored the football game they enjoyed while Remy made a pitcher of sweet tea.

Logan was contemplative but happy as he began to set the table. It felt good, having Remy in his space. He was so accustomed to being alone, having entertained no one since he’d left Walt, or since Silver Fox left him. Logan was in the habit of meeting flings away from home, visiting their homes so he could leave whenever he wanted. His home was his sanctuary. He watched Remy sprawl in the kitchen chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He fit.

Remy caught him staring. His lips quirked. “What?”

“Nuthin’.”

“C’mon!”

“Nuthin’,” he repeated.

“Why ya lookin’ at me?”

“I ain’t doin’ any such thing, Rem.” Logan shrugged. Remy appraised him.

“Sure ya ain’t, chere.” Remy darted looks at him once in a while; Logan rolled his eyes.

Remy sensed a hint of wariness in him and rose from his seat while Logan cut into a steak with a small kitchen knife to see if it was done.

“Ya like ‘em well done, Rem, or do ya want it ta still moo?” He started with surprise when Remy’s hands snaked around him, relieving him of the knife and tugging him back from the grill. “Hey!”

“Meat I want’s right here, homme,” he murmured into the side of his throat. Logan struggled a moment, pushing back at his hands, but Remy had his way.

“Stubborn cuss,” Logan said. Remy settled his chin into his shoulder and wrapped his arms around Logan’s waist. His chest molded to his hard, broad back and Remy breathed in his scent.

“Smell good,” Remy said. Logan indulged him, letting his nuzzle his ear. His hips rolled back briefly, bumping Remy in response to his slow, easy caresses.

“Had my monthly bath.”

“Caught ya on a good day, den.” Remy continued to lean up against Logan while he went about the rest of his chore, spearing each steak with his long fork and transferring them to the platter. He nibbled his ear and neck while Logan turned off the small grill and wiped his hands on a small dish towel. Logan chuckled at Remy’s insistent grip, then jerked at the brief, sharp nip he gave him.

“Quit it! Brat!” He disengaged himself, almost reluctantly, and selected two dinner plates. “Here. I’ll feed ya so ya don’t keep tryin’ ta snack on me.”

“Ya never objected before, chere.” Remy’s pout was hurt.

“Got good steak that’s gonna get cold,” Logan reminded him, spearing him a tender fillet. The smell of succulent juices and piquant seasonings made Remy’s mouth water, as did the smug quirk of Logan’s lips. “Once the dishes are done, see if yer too full or not ta snack on anything else, Cajun.”

Remy was thoughtful during their meal. He sensed Logan’s arousal, yet he seemed reticent to return his affections. Sure, he was making a nuisance of himself, but if there was one thing Remy hated, it was second-guessing, wondering if he was the one being “clingy.” But there was something about Logan’s “strong, silent type” that brought out Remy’s need to tease and get a rise out of him.

“Yer starin’ at me again.”

“Does it bother ya?”

“Just not used ta that.”

“Like what I see.”

“Yeah?” Logan’s voice sounded uncertain.

“Hell, yeah.” Remy’s red-on-black eyes were full of mischief and heat. They roamed over his dinner partner with clear intent.

Logan felt a stiffening between his legs and his jeans became tight in uncomfortable places, having nothing to do with eating too much. His steak and beans lay half-finished on his plate.

“Ya’ve got interesting taste in men, then.”

“Know what I like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?” Logan’s face became warm.

He was enjoying this.

“Listenin’ to ya talkin’ in yer sleep. How hard ya feel up against my back. Way ya taste. Way ya smell. Feel of y’ass in my hands, ya cock in my mouth, the way it comes t’life in my hand when-

The scrape of Logan’s chair was sharp and sudden. He was up from the table and filling Remy’s vision, staring down at him like a cat sizing up a mouse.

“Damn,” Remy muttered before Logan gripped his shoulders and hauled him from his seat. Logan shut him up, effectively kissing the grin off his face and making him moan out loud with need. He hated the way his voice broke, right before it mingled with Logan’s low rumble of satisfaction. His hot, velvety tongue stroked his, exploring the confines of his mouth, and this time the men embraced in earnest.

“Ya had ta make this hard,” Logan complained, nipping a path down Remy’s cheek. “I call myself tryin’ ta be good, seein’ how long I can make it without wantin’ ta jump ya. In the back of my mind, I tell myself it ain’t just about the sex, but yer undoin’ my efforts ta prove it when I wanna fuck ya til we both collapse.”

“Remy was never all dat cooperative ‘bout dat kinda thing,” he admitted, shuddering as Logan laved the warm column of his throat. His fingers scraped at the back of Logan’s shirt, clawing it up out of his waistband. He stumbled back against the kitchen counter as he closed in on him. He groaned at the luscious weight and hardness of Logan’s erection, pushing against him and Remy reached for his ass, molding it in his hands.

He wanted to howl in protest as Logan broke their kiss again and grinned at him.

“Here.” He shoved something soft into his hand. Remy looked down in disbelief at a dish sponge.

“What de hell…?”

“Or ya can dry if ya want. I hate leaving stuff out on the counter overnight,” Logan shrugged. His black eyes were wicked. “Sooner ya help me get this all washed up and put away, sooner I tuck ya in and feed ya dessert, Rem. Take yer pick.”

“Dere’s somethin’ seriously wrong wit’ dis. C’mon, homme, Remy’s beggin’ ya! Look at dis!” He nodded to his bulge, sore and stiff. Logan shrugged again.

“Better get washin’ and be quick about it. Damn, that looks like it hurts,” he said, leaning in and biting Remy’s shoulder through his shirt. He gave Remy’s crotch one covetous, firm stroke, cupping him. Remy groaned. He let him go, however, and moved away to start putting the food back into Tupperware.

“Dat’s just wrong,” Remy grumbled, muttering profanities under his breath in French. He filled the sink with lemon-scented suds. Logan expected him to touch him with dishpan hands? Then so be it. He began scraping dishes and utensils into the trash, plunging them fiercely into the warm water, not caring about the drops that splashed up onto his shirt. If he behaved himself, Logan would be taking it off of him, eventually…

He absorbed himself in his task as the phone rang. Logan paused as he dumped the fat scraps from the steak into the trash bin, sighing as he picked up.

“H’lo?” He grunted in annoyance. “Nah. I don’t wanna take a survey. Uh-uh. No, I really don’t. Got my hands kinda full…yeah. Bet I am missin’ out on a sweet deal, but no thanks. Yeah. Got it. Fuck off. G’night!” he offered cheerfully as he hung up. Remy chuckled.

“Telemarketer?”

“Just wanted ta take a brief, friendly survey of my current credit debt.”

“Nice of ‘em ta think of ya.”

“Fuckers. Always call when I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“Dinner’s over,” Remy argued, “but yeah, them, and the ones who call wantin’ ta sell Remy magazines he ain’t gonna read rank pretty high up on my shit list.” Logan tried to put the containers in the refrigerator when the phone rang again. He sighed heavily.

“Should I even bother?”

“Up t’you.”

“Hello?” he droned. His face changed, closing down. Remy was surprised and curious, but he turned back to the sink. “Hey. Yeah, I wasn’t expectin’ ta hear from ya. Busy. Pretty much. Nah, I don’t think ya ever left that here. Because I just did the laundry. I didn’t wear it myself, it was too damned big. Nah, don’t come by today. I can already tell ya it ain’t here, bub.”

Remy felt odd, burning with something that felt…what? Like…jealousy?

Who else left their clothes at a man’s apartment and called to check up on them but an ex? Logan’s back was turned. He paced the kitchen and ran his hand through the back of his hair, rumpling it.

“I’m kinda occupied. I don’t wanna be rude, but…it don’t matter. I ain’t gonna have this talk with ya. I gotta go. No, I really gotta go.” Remy’s ears picked up a few muffled words in a deep voice from the other end of the line, barely audible from where he stood.

Logan’s sigh was more ragged this time as he hung up. “Third time’s the charm if it rings again and it’s actually anyone I wanna hear from,” he grumbled. “Don’t ask,” he added quickly.

“Wasn’t gonna go dat route, chere,” Remy flipped back as he dried a large cutting board. He wasn’t facing Logan yet, but he continued to speak. “He t’ought he left somethin’ here, eh?”

“Shirt. One I don’t even remember him wearin’ the last time he was here.” Remy appreciated his honesty, even if he didn’t want details of “the last time he was here.”

“Don’t t’ink it got mixed up in yer own stuff?”

“Not likely. I’d know. Walt’s huge. Almost seven feet tall, built like a Mack truck. His style was different from mine.”

“No jeans and flannels?”

“Not even when he was headed ta the post office or supermarket.” Logan suddenly felt guilty talking about him. Bad form, bub, talkin’ about the old to the new…

“Wouldn’t hurt t’check the laundry later when ya have a sec, homme.”

“Wouldn’t, huh?” Logan closed in on him, and Remy felt his solid heat at his back. He shivered at Logan’s breath steaming his shoulder through his sleeve.

Logan’s strong, thick fingers crept up the line of his spine to his neck, kneading it. Remy only then realized how tense he’d become, and he relaxed by degrees, lolling his head forward and closing his eyes. “Laundry can wait til tomorrow, Remy.” Remy halfheartedly plunged his sponge into a drinking glass while Logan adopted Remy’s earlier position, touching him and making himself a pleasant nuisance.

“Thought ya wanted everyt’in’ put away.”

“Yer makin’ progress,” Logan said easily. His hands crept around Remy’s waist, stroking him before he reached into the sink from around him, handing him a dripping fork. He kissed a sensitive spot between Remy’s shoulder blades and pressed his groin against his ass. Remy swallowed. He was rock-hard and rubbing up against the edge of the kitchen sink with Logan pressed against him from the back, distracting him from finishing his chore. He gave a couple of spoons and a spatula a lick and a promise the sponge, rinsing them under the stream of warm water. 

He nearly dropped a glass back into the sink as his zipped was groped and yanked down in a loud, staccato rip. “Shit,” he hissed, “dis yer idea of finishin’ up?”

“Thought ya’d recognize when I’m just gettin’ started, bub. Damn, impatient much?” Remy’s mouth dropped open in pleasure as Logan found him, stroking him through his cotton briefs. He ground back against him and arched into his touch as Logan groped and cupped him. “But feel free ta keep at it, sooner ya get it done…” his voice trailed off as Remy began to thrust himself into his hand.

Logan was hard, too, listening to the arousal in his voice and feeling his ass jut back against him in response. “Damn, Remy,” he told him, “one-track mind, one-track mind…”

“Aw, God,” Remy breathed, covering the back of Logan’s other hand as it stroked his muscular, smooth abdomen. He guided it up to his chest, encouraging him to reach for his nipple. Logan obeyed, toying with the turgid little morsel.

“Yer so fuckin’ hot, Remy,” he admitted, voice gritty, needy. Hungry…

He peeled Remy’s jeans down his thighs, yanking down the snug briefs just as hastily. He was treated to the sight of that ass, quivering, firm and round. Flawless. Logan ran his index finger along the crease, probing him and finding the silky little pucker hidden there. Remy’s cock bobbed and bounced against the cool wood of the counter. He was already dripping from the tip. Logan’s teeth worried the place where Remy’s neck connected to his shoulder. “Nice,” Logan muttered. “Damn, that’s fuckin’ sweet. Ya didn’t think I’d make ya wait that long, didja?”

“Had me pretty convinced,” Remy grated out. Logan’s finger was driving him crazy, drilling inside him now, pushing inside his snug sheath, and it felt so damned good. If it was awkward to him to be so exposed in the middle of Logan’s kitchen, he made no complaint.

“Ain’t makin’s ya wait now, am I?” Logan’s voice and lips descended in a ragged path down Remy’s spine. His eyes snapped open as he felt hot breath steaming his crease. He almost lost his balance as his legs were tugged away from the counter a few inches and his feet were nudged apart. He choked back a shout when he felt the liquid spear of Logan’s tongue opening him, spreading apart his cheeks for better access.

Remy’s voice didn’t obey him. He moaned and gasped a litany of want, approving the way Logan teased his hole and taint. Logan made low grunts of contentment of how smooth and silky he felt, sliding his tongue over him, swiveling his way inside. His voice resonated through his flesh, raising goosebumps over his cheeks. Remy clutched the counter for balance, completely unable to compose himself. Logan’s palm cradled his balls, gently stroking them with his thumb, and Remy joined in, ringing his cock in his shaky grip. He jerked himself in an urgent rhythm, loving the way Logan felt taking him so thoroughly, but needing to come so badly…

Remy was still dripping, throbbing an angry red. He dipped his fingers into the warm water and stroked himself more quickly, making himself slick. Sensations swamped him, drawing his balls up into a tight, leathery knot. His abdominal muscles tensed, drawn tight as a drum, and Remy’s breath was coming out in short, harsh pants. He felt Logan’s breathing quicken, too, growing lost in his task of making love to him. It was never this good before, this intense and thorough. Remy had never felt so craved. Logan’s tongue spiraled and drilled its way inside, opening him for a more meaningful joining. It strained him to wait, but he wanted him ready, begging and crying for him. Logan heard Remy’s keening in his throat, desperate for him to continue or to fuck him, Logan still wasn’t sure. Damn it, he was hot…

“Been wantin’ ta bend ya over as soon as ya set foot in the door.”

“Den get on wit’ it, mec,” he pleaded, tightening his own grip. He was so close, but he wanted to be filled and pounded raw.

Logan stopped only to pull his from the sink, spinning him until he reeled up against the kitchen table instead. Logan took his shoulder and shoved him over roughly until he was bent over the cleanly wiped pine. He inserted two fingers, pushing and thrusting inside him, kneading the sheath of muscle. Remy flexed around him, biting his knuckles and shuddering, raising his ass a notch in response. He heard Logan unzip himself, and his cock bobbed free and slapped him in the ass. 

“Ya like that? Like how that feels? Ya know how much I want ya, Rem?” He thrust and pistoned his fingers, twisting them. His other hand jerked himself until precum welled in the tip of his swollen head. Logan’s jeans sagged around his knees as he kept priming him, now rubbing the swollen head of his cock against Remy’s opening, teasing it. “Tell me ya want me like I want you, Rem. Tell me how much ya want it.”

“Please,” Remy begged, jutting his hips up from the edge of the table. Logan ran his hand down the length of his beautiful back, stroking it greedily before clutching a fistful of Remy’s hair.

“Ya want me ta fuck ya?”

“Aw, man, Logan…chere, please! Do it now! Need ya now!” he cried. Logan was already breaching him, pushing his plump head inside in short, teasing strokes. Remy dragged his lower lip through his teeth at the sensation of being stretched and stuffed full.

“Aw, yeah, Rem, that’s it,” Logan urged, gripping Remy’s narrow hips and thrusting inside him in a slow rhythm. “Wanted this as soon as I saw ya. Ya know I love how this feels. Just…damn it, pushin’ up in you like this…” Remy felt a hot flush of tingles wash over him as Logan sped up and began pounding into him. He felt split open yet more whole than he ever had before. Pressure built up against his prostate, pulsing and throbbing, threatening to push him over the edge.

“Logan,” Remy moaned.

“Say my name again, darlin’,” Logan pleaded. “C’mon…I like hearin’ it comin’ outta yer mouth…love that mouth of yers, darlin’…”

“Logan, Logan,” Remy obliged, fingers knotting against the cool wood. His toes curled as his climax crept up on him, consuming him. “Hnnngggghh! Hnnngh! Shit!” He jerked and spasmed, mouth gaping in a silent scream of pleasure. He whipped back and forth and Logan clung to him, covering his back as he, too, found his fulfillment moments later with Remy’s walls shuddering and clenching around his length. He filled Remy in hot spurts, leaving him weak in the knees.

He slumped forward against him, covering his back. His embrace was all-encompassing, making Remy feel coveted, and again, craved. A pleasant laxness was creeping into his limbs.

“Aw, man,” Logan murmured between pants. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Dishes still ain’t done.” Remy was cramped from his vantage point of being pressed against the table, but he didn’t care. Logan’s lips traced the crown of his cheek.

“Close enough.”

 

*

Downtown:

The lock on the shop door was as stubborn as he remembered. He wiggled it, making three attempts before he turned it just the right way and jerked it open. The scent of rubber tires and other metallic car accessories tickled his nose as he made his way inside.

The shop was dark except for a small light above the register. The “Closed” sign added to the dim glow from the front window. 

The register dinged as he hit the “No Sale” button. It was empty. He cursed and fumbled his way to the back office. He tested the knob. Locked, too. 

He worked his way through the ring of keys, trying each one. He didn’t believe his luck as the lock gave way with a sharp click. He crept inside and shut the door behind him. Taking a small mag light out of his pocket, he lit his way to the desk, grateful the small window was close to the ceiling and covered with a curtain.

He rifled through the top drawer, finding what he was looking for. He opened the small aluminum lock box and wrapped his hand around the thick pile of velvety bills, bundled together with a wide rubber band. He eyed the pile of credit card receipts. The card numbers weren’t truncated, even showing up with expiration dates. His pulse quickened with excitement. He’d found the mother lode.

Everything found its way into his knapsack. He turned off the mag light and tucked it inside, too, zipping it shut. He closed the box and tucked it back into the drawer. One by one, he covered his tracks by locking every door behind him again. No forced entry. That was what anyone finding anything missing would say when they came to investigate.

Naturally, the first person they’d ask was the only other employee of Philippe’s who had a key.

Julien climbed into his brother-in-law’s car and drove off, craving a donut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention it: Logan's ex is Sasquatch. 
> 
> Yes. SASQUATCH from Alpha Flight. Bet that just blew your mind.


	10. Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some disturbing things come to light, triggering unpleasant memories for Remy, and new worries.

Bella stretched and scratched as she went to the refrigerator for her flavored creamer. Rene was already hollering up a storm in the background, glad to be home from his grandmother’s, where he’d had to use his “indoor voice” for most of the visit. He liked being back in front of his own set, watching Power Rangers and playing with his toys.

She padded outside in her pajama bottoms, Martha’s Vineyard sweatshirt and slippers to get the mail, nodding to her neighbor across the street. She opened the box and started sorting through a thick sheaf of letters and bills.

Something caught her eye as she was about to walk back inside. 

Her car was backed into the driveway, more specifically, Remy’s car. He still hadn’t come back yet from whatever his “weekend” involved.

Bella usually drove straight in and parked, then backed out every morning.

Julien.

He must have gone out last night after she turned in; she tried to remember if she ever heard the door click shut, or the jingle of keys?

Once the car he’d stripped was out of the garage – Belladonna worried it wouldn’t be the last – Julien had parked his own truck inside, wanting it to be off the street.

She made her way back inside and set down the mail.

“Can I have eggs, Maman?”

“In a minute, baby,” she assured Rene. He beamed and went back to the “tag team” match he set up with his action figures and an old shoebox. Bella checked her housekey hanger by the microwave, annoyed when she didn’t find the key ring. She searched the countertops and living room coffee table. No luck.

Bella headed back to Rene’s room and leaned her ear against the door. She heard sonorous breathing, cut short by an abrupt, guttural snore. Julien was home, passed out, she guessed in disgust.

She tried not to let the door creak as she tiptoed inside. She thanked heaven that he was the only occupant of the twin bed. She’d long given up on her brother having any semblance of tact in that regard, and still felt bitter when she remembered previous incidents of his insensitivity. She got in the habit of ushering Rene out of the living room whenever Julien brought home houseguests, sequestering her son in her room for safekeeping. He was young, he had eyes, and Bella wasn’t ready to answer awkward questions.

She found the keys sitting atop his discarded pants. The room was a pigsty. She collected them soundlessly into her palm and drifted out. He didn’t budge.

Bella headed back outside and opened the car.

She cursed at the faint stench of marijuana. Remy was going to kill her.

“What de fuck wuz he t’inkin’?” she muttered to herself. “Might as well bring de police to de front doorstep again, frere.” She wound down the windows to let the car air out and spied something in the back seat.

There was an empty donut box and to-go coffee cup. She grabbed those and threw them out in the outside can. She searched further, not wanting Remy to find anything else there that would make him accuse her of abusing the favor he’d done.

A brown knapsack was tucked under the passenger seat. Belladonna decided to take it inside. She didn’t remember it being there before when she’d buckled Rene in the night before.

 

*

The first thing Remy noticed as he woke up was that the pillow beneath his head smelled different.

In the light of day, the night before came into crisp, sharp focus.

He stayed over at Logan’s apartment. His body was exquisitely limp and slightly sore from their encounter in the kitchen. Remy would never look at doing the dishes the same way again…

Dessert hadn’t been bad, either, he mused. After brushing his teeth (Logan thoughtfully provided him with a brand new Reach), they climbed into Logan’s comfortable queen-size bed, and Remy spread himself over Logan’s body like warm butter, legs tangled together under the covers.

Until Logan’s lips ran on autopilot, drifting along Remy’s hairline and forehead in soft kisses. Gentle caresses became rough, insistent. Remy longed for a taste of him, meeting Logan’s hungry gaze with a feral look.

“Don’t plan on fallin’ asleep jus’ yet, chere.”

“Geez…” Logan muttered. He stubbornly tried to protect his throat from Remy’s mouth, but it was futile. He suckled the crest of his ear, then speared the tip of his tongue inside, swiveling it. Logan bucked beneath him and his body roared back to life, erection throbbing and poking Remy in the stomach. Hands that were barely pushing against him changed, pulling him closer, fingers closing around his arms or clutching his soft hair.

They moved together, groping, kissing, dragging hot mouths over hills and planes of flesh, feasting, kneading…needing…

Remy disregarded Logan’s attempts to keep him from sliding down his body and slipped free, skimming over the tan peaks of his nipples and the divide of his ribs. Logan’s hips bucked and thrust up at him of their own volition.

“Damn it, don’tcha get enough?” he whined, but his fingers crept back into his hair, kneading his scalp as Remy’s mouth misted over the head of his cock.

“M’greedy. Wanna taste you.” And taste him he did, lapping up his salty, male flavors. The remnant of toothpaste coating Remy’s tongue bathed Logan’s flesh in faint mint, sweetening him, and Remy indeed couldn’t get enough.

“If I didn’t know better, Rem, I’d think ya were a certified sex maniac.”

“Dey give certificates fo’ dat kinda t’ing?” he mumbled around him, scraping his blunt fingernails through the nest of black curls covering Logan’s groin. “Sign me up.”

From there, it was all over. Logan’s face contorted and every muscle strained beneath Remy’s ministrations as he imbibed him.

Dessert was served, with an order of whipped cream.

They drifted off, this time with no false starts, and Remy slept like a baby.

Logan’s clock read eight AM. Remy sighed to himself, gently pulling the covers higher over the rise of Logan’s chest. His partner snuggled more deeply into the blankets and sought him out in sleep.

He needed to trade cars again and get to the shop. He owed his uncle more time in the garage with a specialty T-Bird that was the focus of their next show in Atlantic City. Most importantly, he needed to set up his weekend with Rene for the following weekend and take him to pick out a treat at the toy store. His birthday was coming up, and Remy wanted to make it perfect.

But he was so reluctant to move. His cheek rode the crest of Logan’s breathing as his chest rose and fell. He was completely content; if the brief jerk of Logan’s arm as the nerve convulsed, right before his arm wrapped more snugly around Remy was any indication, it was mutual.

Moments later, Logan stirred awake as though sensing his thoughts.

“Got anywhere ya need ta be?” he asked hoarsely.

“Shop. Workin’ on a new car. Oncle will wanna kick my ass if I don’ head over soon, mec.”

“I ain’t holdin’ ya hostage, but lemme feed ya before ya head out.” Before the rejoinder could leave his lips, Logan stopped Remy with “Food. Feed ya food.”

“What’d ya think I thought?”

“Never mind.”

“Aw, c’mon…”

“Ah-ah-ahhh,” Logan warned, gently thumping him in warning. “Easy, killer.”

“Eh. Remy’s gettin’ a crick in his neck, anyway.” He feigned disinterest and yawned, stretching as he twisted himself away. He was up quickly, treating Logan to the sight of his retreating back.

Logan simply stared as Remy began to retrieve his clothes, regretting that he was covering his beautiful body. It wasn’t something he’d admit out loud.

“You gettin’ up, Logan?”

“I ain’t one fer layin’ around. Too much on my mind once I wake up.” His yawn was sonorous and leonine, expanding his broad chest. He strode past Remy, naked as the day he was born. He didn’t bother to retrieve so much as a pair of boxers on his way to the shower.

“I’m gonna make a pot of joe.”

“S’fine,” Remy murmured, admiring Logan’s posture and the roll of his glutes as he strode out. Tit for tat.

Remy went out to the kitchen shortly after Logan set the timer on his pot and climbed into the shower. Remy heard him whistling jauntily over the hiss of steam while he stood over the sink. He finished the job, chuckling to himself as he dried the dishes.

He noticed a plastic video store bag on the counter and poked through it. Logan’s selections made him curious and confused. He didn’t seem like the Disney type to Remy, but that was one more layer to peel away. Remy filed it away in the back of his mind to ask Rene if he’d seen either movie Logan chose, thinking to perhaps borrow them before they were due back.

The shower shut off with a low thump. Remy found a mug with the name of Scott’s construction company printed on it in gold, as well as a NASCAR commuter cup decorated in flames and checkered flags and filled both of them with piping hot brew. Remy took his black, grateful that Logan liked his coffee strong, too. His mind clicked into second gear, his “taking care of business” mode. Remy already missed Rene.

Remy treated himself to a piece of the leftover steak, heating it in a small frying pan; putting it in the microwave after all of Logan’s efforts was a sacrilege.

Logan had his game face on as he came out to the kitchen, hair still slightly damp and curling at his nape. He already had on his work boots, sturdy Levi’s and a thick sweatshirt layered over a plaid flannel whose tails hung out below the hem. He looked ready to work hard.

“Called Summers. I’m headin’ out ta the site to work on some drywall. I’ll be out all day.”

“I bet.”

“Ya’ve got the right idea.” Logan tossed another leftover fillet into the pan once Remy cut his up.

“Keep de rest of de stuff til it’s gone. I don’ need de dishes back yet.”

“That’s lunch for a coupla days,” Logan agreed easily. “I ain’t much of a cook. I do all right, but it ain’t my favorite thing.”

“I love ta eat, so I love ta cook.” He amended that. “Had ta build up m’own ‘mommy’ skills once Bella an’ I split.”

“I spoiled myself fer too damned long. Got used ta eatin’ out a lot once I was single again an’ bringin’ home takeout. Easy t’do when yer only buyin’ dinner fer one.”

“Try cookin’ more often. Opens up yer options.”

“Ain’t got anyone ta teach me.”

“Ain’t that hard. Pretty handy wit’ dat grill already.” 

Neither of them wanted to cave first and suggest a future cooking date. Logan tore off a piece of steak and pushed it into his mouth, licking the juices from his fingers.

“Were ya plannin’ on watchin’ some movies, homme?”

“Eh?”

“Were ya in de mood for ‘The Incredibles?’” Logan almost choked on the piece of steak he was working on. He coughed, then swallowed. Remy reflexively rubbed his back, looking apologetic. “Caught ya off-guard?”

“Didn’t know if ya planned on bringin’ yer little buddy,” Logan mentioned. “Just…thought it might be nice ta have somethin’ here for him, if ya felt like bringin’ him along. I don’t get kids here that often. Ain’t exactly a playground in my livin’ room, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Ya didn’t hafta go through de trouble,” Remy said, but a soft smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.

“Ain’t like I’ve never watched a kiddie flick.”

“I jus’ take Rene as m’own excuse ta see it in de theater wit’out folks lookin’ at me funny.”

“Good plan.”

“He won’t mind if ya wanna tag along next time, but he’ll wanna talk yer ear off in de middle of ev’ry bit.” He eyed the bag. “How long’ve ya got ‘em for?”

“Five days.”

“Wouldn’t mind seein’ de Godfather again.”

“Director’s cut.”

“Remy’ll bring de beer.” He walked toward the door with Logan a few paces behind him. “Wanna beat traffic.”

“Take it easy.”

“Don’ work yerself inta de ground, mec.”

“I’ll have worked this hard from the cradle to the grave; it gets the job done.”

“Den let Remy know de next time ya wanna play.” Logan stood framed in the doorway with Remy staring back at him from the hall. “Thanks fer dinner.”

“Thanks fer comin’.”

“Any time.” His wave was casual as he headed for the exit. Logan quietly shut the door and sighed.

What next? What could he hope for, and was it worth it?

Knock, knock, knock…

The door hinge creaked slightly as Logan opened it again. “Ya forget someth-“ Remy’s face was suffused with humor and desire as he fisted his hands in Logan’s sweatshirt. The kiss goodbye was warm and sloppy, very thorough, and it put Logan’s mind to rest. Slightly.

“Thought I wuz just gonna walk away, didntcha?”

“Brat.”

“Bye.”

“Call me,” Logan barked after him as Remy now left.

*

When Remy pulled up to Belladonna’s house, Rene was on the porch playing with his toys. His face lit up and he ran down the front walk before Remy finished parking his mother’s car.

“Papa!”

“Careful, Rene!” Remy cried, trying to make sure he didn’t smack his son with the car door as he tried to open it. “Move back! Gimme a sec to come out.”

“Where’d ya go, Papa?”

“Went t’see a friend. Remember m’sieu Logan?”

“Uh-huh?” His hug was rib-crushing. Remy kissed the top of his head and ruffled his hair.

“Had dinner. Watched a game.”

“Did you have pizza?”

“Naw, we didn’t have pizza! What is it wit’ you an’ pizza?” Rene grinned up at him, and Remy noticed another of his front teeth was missing. “What’s dis? You been gettin’ inta fights? Where’s yer tooth?”

“No!” he crowed, sticking his index finger into the empty space. “Tooth fairy gave me a dollar.”

“Dat’s some nice fairy.”

“Can we spend it at Chuck E Cheese?”

“Not t’day.”

“Awwwww!”

“Gotta work wit’ Oncle at de shop.”

“Already?” Bella watched them from the screen door, overhearing the exchange. “Why so early?”

“Why not? Dat a problem? Need me to take him?” Rene looked hopeful.

“Non,” she replied, but she looked uneasy. “Ain’t put gas in yer car yet,” she explained. 

“Don’ worry ‘bout dat,” he shrugged. “I can do dat maself.”

“It ain’t no trouble. G’wan, Remy, take mine.” Remy huffed.

“Don’ know why.”

“Suit yerself.”

“Fine. Remy’ll take Bella’s car. Sheesh.” He tossed her key ring up in the air and caught it with emphasis. “Wan’ me ta take Rene ta breakfast?”

“He just had eggs.”

“Can I go, Maman?” Remy chuckled.

“Oui, chere.”

“Get yer shoes.”

They headed to Denny’s. Rene ordered a stack of fruity pancakes; Remy ordered the Grand Slam halfheartedly, not really hungry after his snack at Logan’s. It would make just as good a lunch if he reheated it at the shop.

Once their waitress brought their drinks, his cell rang.

“Dis Remy.”

“C’mon in ta de shop,” Philippe barked at him. His feathers sounded ruffled, and Remy’s gut twisted.

“M’comin’. What’s wrong?”

“C’mon in, now.”

“I’m wit’ Rene, here at Denny’s. We ain’t got our food yet.”

“Den drop him off once ya do. We had a break-in.”

Cold prickles washed over Remy and his voice lowered. Rene noticed his sober look, distracting him from his crayons and placemat. Remy gestured for him to go back to what he was doing. “Have ya reported it yet, Oncle?”

“Got a coupla boys in blue here now, checkin’ it out. Cleaned out m’office. Petty cash box an’ de receipts.”

“Merde.”

“Don’ get me started. Ain’t happy right now. Hurry on in. Hug de boy fer me.”

They rang off. Remy hardly touched his breakfast. When the server came back to ask how everything was, he preemptively asked for a to-go box. He busied himself with nagging Rene about his manners and wiping whipped cream off his son’s mouth.

He was thankful that his son chatted his ear off on the way home.

“Gonna come back tonight, Papa?”

“Might not, petit.”

“Awwww!” His pout wouldn’t work a second time, but it came close.

“Be good. Call ya soon.” Remy kissed him soundly and then walked him inside.

His car was parked in a different direction than it was when he showed up earlier. He assumed Belladonna took it to get gas after all, but he was still irritated. The clutch in her car was sticky; Remy made a mental note to come by and fix it later in the week. It would give him the excuse to come and see Rene, anyway.

He called out, “Bella! I brought him home!” He heard his ex’s wife in the background; it sounded like she was talking on the phone. “Rene, g’wan back and tell Maman yer here.”

“Okay, Papa.” His son’s moist kiss warmed his cheek as he ran back. Remy waited until he heard his son’s voice greeting her before taking his leave.

He spied his car keys on the dining table and scooped them up, tossing her keys there instead. His phone vibrated at him; he’d set it on forward for the remainder of the ride home, deciding it was best to save the crisis at the shop for himself, keep it away from Rene’s ears.

The first thing he noticed was how clean the car was; it looked like Bella had it washed and vacuumed, and there was an overwhelming scent of one of those vanilla air fresheners. It tickled his nose; Remy sneezed and cursed under his breath.

“Ain’t doin’ me any favors wit’ dat crap,” he muttered, but he was glad to see the needle hit the “F” on his gas meter when he turned on the ignition.

His stomach pitched when he saw the patrol car in the parking lot. Two officers eyed him carefully as he entered the shop.

“Where’s m’uncle?” he inquired.

“In the back. Checking to make sure nothing else was taken from the garage. We’re just making some notes. Are you Remy?”

“Yeah.” He nodded warily, feeling uncomfortable beneath his gaze.

“We’re looking for signs of forced entry. We’re also interviewing you and your uncle today to see if you can think of anyone who had an interest in the shop, be familiar with where you keep valuables stored, know when you come and go…”

“We close de shop at eight every night. I was away from home, didn’t come in ta work yesterday.”

“How about last night?”

“Nope. Havin’ dinner wit’ a friend, an’ like I said, didn’t come home.” He hoped his meaning was clear enough without having to spell it out for him. The officer nodded thoughtfully and scribbled on his pad.

“So no one works late? After hours, on repairs? Don’t you do custom work here? Use expensive parts and accessories?”

“I was plannin’ on comin’ in today,” Remy explained patiently. “Not last night. And Nate’s outta town. Had ta see ‘bout a sick relative.”

“He’s the other mechanic?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never had a problem with him as an employee?”

“No. Ever.”

“Okay. We’ll be back to talk to him, too, but in the meantime, we’d like to talk with the neighboring businesses to see if they noticed anything out of the ordinary last night. This is going into the legal briefs in the paper; that might generate witnesses willing to come forward, if they saw anything, aside from letting them know this guy’s still at large.”

Philippe came out, looking pissed and frustrated. “Dey took de cash, receipts, an’ some of de accessories we had stored in de garage we wuz gonna use on a car we’re restorin’. Set of rims dat cost me a grand.”

“Let’s sit down and you can give me a more comprehensive list. Was there anything that would have had the name of the store on it, or anything else distinctive to help us know the stuff if we find it?” He led his uncle away.

“Can you give me your full name, sir?”

“Remy Etienne LeBeau.”

“Birthdate?”

“February 14, 1969.” Remy looked puzzled but said nothing.

The police stayed for another twenty minutes.

“Let us know if you find anything else amiss. Here’s the number to our precinct.”

“’Preciate it.”

They followed the officers to the lot.

“That your car?” asked the one who Remy spoke to.

“Uh-huh.”

“Leave it to a mechanic to have the nicest car on the block.” He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like vanilla.” Remy had left the window cracked while he drove, for precisely that reason.

“Don’ blame me. My ex brought it back in that condition,” Remy scoffed. The officer grinned.

Once they were gone, Philippe took him aside. “C’mon. I need a word.”

They headed into the office. Philippe motioned for him to sit down. He took a gulp of his cooling coffee and eyed him levelly.

“Ya gotta tell me if ya know anyt’in’ ‘bout what happened, Remy.”

“I don’t!”

“Swear ta me. Yer my frere’s fils, Remy. Ya wouldn’ lie ta me.”

“I’d never do dat t’you.”

“Gotta ask. Thief knew where t’go an’ what t’take. No forced entry. Keep this place locked up tighter den Fort Knox at night.” Philippe sighed. “Someone had a key.”

“Nate wouldn’ do dis.”

“Ain’ likely,” he agreed. “Dis don’ sit well wit’ me.”

“It’s some fucked up shit.”

“Gonna hafta start stayin’ later at night. Don’ want someone t’inkin’ it’s easy t’get back in here an’ keep takin’ what dey want.”

“Non, Oncle. Don’ do dat.” His uncle was older, hypertensive, and didn’t need the stress. “Lemme stay if ya need someone, but don’ do it yerself.”

“Dis needs t’get resolved.”

“I ain’ got a clue.”

“Ya can’t t’ink of anyone who’s been in here, lately, might know de ins an’ outs? A customer? A friend?”

A niggling suspicion occurred to him, but he kept silent. “Non.”

“You sure?” his uncle prodded.

“Swear.”

His uncle rubbed his hand over his face. He looked tired. “Fine, den. Gonna work on the blue one t’day?”

“Already tol’ Rene I’d be here.”

“Den let’s work.”

But all day long, both men had their doubts, for different reasons.


	11. Funny Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Eden. The honeymoon’s over, unraveling one thread at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn’t completely wretched.
> 
> I nodded briefly to Remy’s comic canon power, namely his “charm” in this chapter, since he’s an empath in most of the fanfic I’ve read, almost to the point of it becoming canon. I wanted to bring in that bit, even though this was previously meant to be a “no powers,” every man fic. Even though there aren’t any superhero slugfests in this story, there is that hint of mutantcy, just enough to remind anyone reading that these are X-Men, in one incarnation or another.

“Damn.”

“What’s de matter, mec?”

“Strong. Phew.” Logan wrinkled his nose, slightly fanning the air from the passenger seat.

“Don’ like Remy’s efforts at feng shui?”

“What the fuck…? Fung what?” Logan looked at him like he blew a gasket.

“Jus’ talkin’ shit, chere. Nah, Remy’s ex took his car out an’ had it detailed.”

“Nice of her.”

“Ya’d t’ink so.” He nodded to the small blue plastic disc that seemed to be plugged into the air conditioner grill above the glove box. “Bella got dat an’ left it in here. Ain’t Remy’s favorite. Been too lazy ta t’row it out.”

“Air freshener?”

“Designer scent,” Remy corrected him, straight-faced.

“Jeez…”

“Expectin’ maybe Country Apple?”

“None o’ my exes were into that shit, thank God. Potpourri, scented candles, room air spray…I hate all of that shit.”

“Damn. M’sorry, chere. It makin’ ya miserable over dere?”

“I’ll live.” His tone didn’t convince Remy.

“Make ya sick ta yer stomach?”

“Nah. Gives me little, persistent headaches between the eyes.”

“Aw, yeah. ‘Nuff said. First chance, it’s getting’ t’rown out.”

“Works fer me.” Remy did the next best thing in the meantime and turned off the air conditioner, opting instead to wind down the windows. The hum of sliding glass brought a rush of cool, fresh air with it. The nights were growing cooler, even though it was still warm enough every afternoon to walk outside in shirt sleeves. “Better,” he assured Remy.

“Remy aim’s t’please.”

“What? No money back guarantee?”

“Wait one hot sec, now…what’s dis ‘bout money??” Remy cocked his brow accusingly at his lover. “Ya been holdin’ out? I been givin’ ya all dis fo’ not’in?”

“Hey, who said anything about ‘you giving me’, eh?” Remy grumbled something under his breath, feigning disgruntlement. The sound changed to a grunt of surprise when Logan’s broad, warm palm cupped Remy’s denim-clad thigh and squeezed.

“Wanna make me wreck, ya jus’ keep doin’ dat.”

“That an order?” His grip mellowed only slightly; his caress was rough as he kneaded Remy’s supple muscles, feeling them bunch with tension beneath his hand. His middle fingertip drew lazy patterns over Remy’s inner thigh, where he was sensitive and extraordinarily ticklish. 

“Oh, sh-“ Remy stiffened in his seat and caught Logan’s hand, pinning it flat against him. “Not now,” he whined hoarsely. He darted a look at Logan peripherally, catching his sheepish look, but there was lust in his eyes.

He positively radiated it. Remy was suddenly wading into its rolling, lapping heat.

“Remy jus’ serviced it. Insurance premium’s high enough, chere. Please. Later?”

“Promise?” Remy’s answering nod was jerky. Logan’s hand against him, beneath Remy’s protective grip, felt hot. They reached an intersection four cars ahead of them.

Red light. Remy suppressed a whimper.

“C’mon, chere…awww…!” Remy had loosened his grip with the intent to let Logan go, but his palm eased down to the nook of his crotch, sliding greedily over the throbbing knot of flesh between his legs. Logan felt the answering pull in his own loins as heat and need built within him. He massaged and kneaded him, developing a wicked rhythm. Remy leaned back in his seat slightly, stifled by the safety belt and the dashboard that suddenly felt too close.

“Nice,” Logan murmured. “Feel so damned good, Rem. Yer hard fer me?”

“Yeah,” he said, barely intelligible.

“Wanna strip ya down and bend ya over,” Logan told him. His voice was full of dark, luscious things, things that would make Remy lose all reason and control.

Then again, what had reason and control every done for him, anyway?

“Harder,” he rasped. “What else?”

“Ya want more than just me fuckin’ ya? Hard and fast? Huh? Want me ta pound ya? Take that tight, sweet ass of yers an’ just…mmmmmmmm,” he thrummed, licking his lips at the thought. He fondled Remy more firmly, finding a sweet spot. Remy turned up the staticky radio slightly, wanting to make sure their conversation didn’t drift out of the car while they idled.

Fortunately or unfortunately, it was a long red light.

“Freeway,” Logan said as he pried open the copper button of Remy’s jeans, granting him some momentary relief from how tight they felt on him.

“Gonna be late,” Remy argued, but the tearing of zipper teeth and resulting draft of cool air on his belly was making it impossible to deny Logan.

“Don’t matter, does it? Huh? Gonna be upset if we miss a few minutes, baby?” Logan crooned as his fingertips grazed Remy’s belly, exploring the texture of the crisp hairs trailing down beneath his navel.

“Damn it!” Remy closed his eyes, shivering and tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

He longed for Logan’s mouth on him, to have his erection pressed up against his back while his lips traced his throat.

The horn blared behind them while the green light swam in Remy’s line of vision.

“Go,” Logan whispered. “Freeway.” His voice sounded ragged, too. Remy drove, but it was killing him. He turned onto the on-ramp slightly faster than the speed limit. The stars overhead raced by, and street lights’ sheets of eerie light scraped over them with each that they passed. The hollows beneath Logan’s eyes and in his cheekbones were stark in the darkness. He found Remy in the dark, straining and flexing hotly in his hand, silky and turgid. He slicked his thumb over the leaking tip, making a sound of satisfaction.

“Want you,” he said, disconnecting his lap belt and descending toward Remy’s lap. 

“Nnnnghh…” His hot breath reached his flesh first, then the sweet slickness enclosed him, making his eyes snap open wide. “CHERE! AW, GAWD!”

“Drive,” Logan murmured around him before steadfastly flattening his tongue against him, pushing the thick knob against the roof of his mouth.

It was becoming the best road trip he ever had.

Remy’s shirt was stifling him. The road was mostly deserted; Remy had at least fifteen cars’ worth of space around him in either direction. No police cars in sight.

Just Logan in the passenger seat, drawing on him, moaning around him in pleasure at the feel of him between his lips. Remy couldn’t stand it.

He needed to be bare. It taxed him to keep his bearings as the speedometer crept up to sixty, then sixty-five. Remy slipped himself free of the shoulder harness long enough to reach behind his neck and grasp his shirt collar. He jerked it neatly off, wadding it up and tossing it behind him into the back seat. His nipples were stiff and yearning for attention. Logan found one, flicking his finger over it, then rolling it gently in time with his shunts over Remy’s cock. Remy’s fingers of his free hand removed Logan’s Stetson, letting it drift to the car mat. Logan’s thick, coarse waves of hair felt right, clenched in his grip.

They were locked in a surreal, feverish waltz of cool night air rippling over them, nearly drowning out the radio and Remy’s pants and prayers that yeah, oh God, Logan, it felt so good, would he please do it again, harder, faster…” He couldn’t thrust his hips up into Logan’s wetness without accidentally flooring the gas. Logan reached for his mouth, teasing his lips with the thick, calloused pad of his thumb. Remy suckled it, moaning. Logan rubbed his damp digit over his nipple again, and precum flowed more freely, bringing him Remy’s salty, pungent male flavors.

Speed enhanced it. The full moon accused them, chided them, but illuminated the contours of their bodies. Trees raced by, along with a suspiciously familiar exit sign.

Remy didn’t care.

The purr of his engine shuddered through them, uneven with the jerking of changing gears and speeds.

“So close,” Remy grated out. “Please, baby…come…gonna come…” He slapped Logan’s back, not meaning to, but it was so hard, not being able to fully grip him, caress him aside from digging his fingers into him, barely scraping the bumps of his spine. Logan’s breathing quickened at the feelings, the memories that roughness evoked, Remy clawing his back and roaring his name as he rode him.

“Too much,” he insisted. He watched their surroundings change.

An exit. A one-way ticket to nirvana. It wasn’t Remy’s best right turn, but he couldn’t afford to be picky, not with the havoc this man wrought in his body, making every muscle tense in anticipation and excitement.

Trees. He saw trees. An orchard just beyond a stretch of tall, wire-link fence. He prayed the owners didn’t live in a farmhouse nearby as he slowed the car, searching for a place to stop. Without even stopping his chore, Logan turned the radio off. Remy pulled off the paved road and rolled onto the gravel behind a cluster of what looked like apple trees studded with hard green knots.

Finally…

Logan almost lost his grip on him as Remy slid his seat the rest of the way back, both to accommodate him and his own long legs. Logan moaned loudly over how good he tasted and the feel of Remy’s hands sliding over his back, dipping beneath the back of his waistband. Logan felt the inadvertent thump of the seat belt buckle slap him in the temple as Remy unfastened it, but all he did was grunt in protest.

“Sorry,” Remy whispered.

“S’okay.” Logan only came up for air when Remy worked off his shirt, for he, too, needed to see him bare.

He didn’t know how they made it out of the car, who disengaged first. Remy felt the cool air caress his heated flesh more freely as he eased himself on top of the hood. His cock bobbed slightly, standing erect and waiting. He leaned back on his elbows, crooking his finger for him to take him.

“Can’t wait, chere.”

“Ain’t gonna wait for it anymore,” Logan promised. “That ass is mine.”

“Gonna finish what ya started?”

“That’s mine, too. G’wan, move up all the way. That’s it. Damn, yer so fuckin’ fine, I’m gonna fuck you into next week!” Thrills shivered up Remy’s spine as Logan roughly nudged him back and worked him out of his jeans, taking his sneakers with them. He descended on his cock again, but let Remy’s thighs fall slack, opening for him. He caressed Remy’s taint, making him cry out. His fingers stroked his sac, tickling them as he swallowed him, again and again. Remy pulsed within the walls of Logan’s throat. His fingers went back into his wonderful hair, combing through it and scraping his nails over his scalp.

A thick fingertip probed him where he was vulnerable, and Remy shuddered, opening his legs even wider for Logan. He fell back, yelping at first as he felt the cooling metal against his skin, but it fell away in a rush of tingles as Logan’s hand thrust into him, reacquainting him with his secrets and tender places. Logan was a thorough lover, and the things he did to Remy shook him to the core.

The fleeting feeling that it could all be gone in an instant left him cold and panicked. Remy gave a little choked sob, different from his moans before.

“Ya okay?” Logan murmured, peering up at him in concern. He kissed the tip of his member and let his hand rest inside him while Remy collected his thoughts. His thumb gently stroked his sac. Remy nodded.

“Don’ stop. Feels so good. Ya feel so good.”

“Come for me,” he rumbled. “Ya know ya want to. Come for me.” He set upon him again in earnest, and Remy was lost.

His mouth tugged and pulled on him, faster, harder, deeper, hotter. A hint of Logan’s saliva mingled with Remy’s precum and their juices mingled, drizzling into the coarse nest of hair.

“YespleaseohGodOUI, CHER, OUI! C’mon, baby, c’mon…” He shuddered and bucked as pleasure overtook him. His eyes beseeched Logan; the sight of his fulfillment flitting over his handsome features moved him.

“I want you,” Logan cried. “God damn it, Rem. I want you. Ya always make me want you.” His voice was rough and his hands weren’t gentle as they jerked Remy up, even though he didn’t have the strength to do more than sprawl limply back on the hood.

Logan flipped him neatly onto his stomach. He flinched at the feel of his deflating cock thumping the metal, but Logan’s hands were on him again, groping and kneading him, probing him.

“Tight…nice,” Logan hissed. “Want you…” Remy heard the rustling of his jeans and the scrape of gravel as Logan kicked off his shoes. He peered back over his shoulder, craning his neck. He saw the determined, hard look on Logan’s face and shivered.

_His tongue. Oh, Dieu… His tongue_.

It was back. It was undoing him. It was fucking him so sweetly, seducing him like a lover itself. Logan’s breath was hot, steaming him open and dampening his tender tissues as he worked himself inside. 

“Mmmmmph,” he groaned, voice garbled but filled with need. Remy grew weak in the knees and clung to the hood for support.

Logan’s mouth was finished too soon. But Remy felt him clap his broad hand around the scruff of his neck, taking ownership as his cock butted against his crease.

“Ya want it?” he whispered. “Ya want it, Rem? Wanna feel me inside ya?”

“Oui,” he pleaded, almost whimpering. “Please, chere…”

“Want my cock? Huh? Like it when it’s inside ya? Pumpin’ ya and poundin’ ya hard? Want me ta make ya scream, darlin’?” His breath crept in sneaky tendrils around the shell of Remy’s ear, stirring wisps of his hair. Even as he spoke, the head of his cock was already pushing at him, dilating him slowly, urging the supple little knot of muscle to give way.

Logan continued his wicked words, taunting him. “I don’t think ya want it enough.” He was barely inside him, breaching him no farther than the swollen head. He wiggled his hips, barely flexing. The breeze felt heady as it stroked their naked bodies in the dark. Remy butted back against him, craving him, wanting him sheathed inside him.

“I wan’ it! C’mon, baby, please!”

“I don’t believe you.”

He wanted Remy to talk dirty to him, even though Remy could feel how hard he was already. The ring of tissue at Remy’s entrance burned and strained around the flesh probing it. 

“Wan’ ya t’fuck me so badly. Fuck me long an’ hard. Don’ wanna be able t’walk straight when yer t’rough.”

“Yeah?” Logan’s voice was shaky. He nipped Remy’s neck and swiveled his hips, barely giving Remy an inch, then taking it away. He whimpered. Logan was killing him…

“No’tin’ feels as good as when ya take me. Not’in feels like you,” Remy panted. Logan gave another brief thrust, then another, barely adding another inch. Logan found Remy’s sensitive nipple and tweaked it. “Remy can’ get enough,” he admitted.

“Ya can’t, huh? Like this?” He shunted inside him with a swift, hard thrust, dragging a guttural cry from Remy. “Or like this?”

“Yeah, like dat, chere. Jus’ like dat.”

“Ya like that, darlin’? Want more? Want more of my cock, just where ya like it? Huh? That feel good?” 

It felt fantastic.

Remy answered him with a string of syllables that deteriorated into a long, shuddering groan.

“Didn’t catch that, darlin’. Tell me again how ya like me inside this sweet ass. Sweet, tight ass…damn it, Remy, feel so right…nice…nnngghh…” Logan was coming undone himself, squeezed by Remy’s luscious heat.

He reached his prostate. Remy sang out, slapping the hood of the car until his palms stung as Logan now rutted and pounded into him.

“Yer all mine now,” Logan whispered.

“Don’ stop.”

“Never.”

Logan gripped Remy’s hip, fingers nearly bruising his supple skin; the other hand closed around his nape snugly, declaring ownership. Remy loved his rough possession of him, taking control of his pleasure. Sensations flooded him, tingling through every nerve in his body.

Logan realized in that one vulnerable instant that it was true. He couldn’t get enough of him. It dogged him for weeks, that Remy leaked into his system like a drug, and that craving him became a habit. A monkey on Logan’s back.

This was never supposed to happen. The most that he’d ever expected, ever even asked was a roll in the hay. Maybe more than once, the kind where the only effort you put into being with someone meant remembering their name the next morning.

Conflicting voices in his mind, in his heart fought, clenching his jaw and quickening his thrusts.

_Nothing feels like you_ , Remy had told him.

_No one makes me feel like you do_. He heard the voice plain as day in his head, and realized it was his own. But he felt it, so intensely and with a depth that shook him.

Because it was _shared_.

Logan heard the hitch in Remy’s voice and breathing, body tensing beneath him, realizing Logan discovered the link between them, the connection Remy made. It was instinctive.

Yet _invasive_.

Logan pummeled him raw, ruthlessly. Remy drowned in a tide of emotions, all of them tearing at him and pulling him under.

Logan’s denial tinged the rapture between them bittersweet.

“Come fer me,” Logan rasped. “Come fer me, damn it…”

Remy obeyed.

Logan followed.

They pitched into abyss together, thrilled, terrified, speechless.

Moments later, both of them were shuddering and twitching, still engaged. Remy’s strength was nearly gone, reserved only for the task of propping himself against the hood. Logan’s breath gusted over his ear.

Sensory overload threatened him when Logan was in such a state, exhausted and still unable to get his bearings. Sounds of crickets and birds mingled with the wind. He still smelled a hint of the cloying vanilla air freshener, a sacrilege against the cleaner, purer scent of apple trees. He smelled and tasted Remy’s sweat, nearly – but not quite – missing the hint of saline in the air, missing the pungence of perspiration.

One hot tear was all Remy allowed himself. It dripped from his eye, hitting the hood with an indiscernible tap.

Logan still embraced him like his life depended on it.

He hated himself for it. 

But he kissed him. Wherever his lips landed on Remy’s bare skin, he kissed him, and his hand captured Remy’s, which was trembling. Remy reflexively spread his fingers apart, waiting for Logan to lace his between them. Their grip on each other was so tight it defied blood flow and whitened their knuckles.

Neither of them wanted to let go.

*

They rose shakily to their feet, separating to stretch and retrieve lost clothes.

Remy eased into his jeans and composed himself, only then noticing the icy tear track on his cheek. His back was to Logan as he threaded his arms through the sleeves of his tee. Hastily he wiped it away, glad it was dark out and Logan wouldn’t be able to see anything was wrong with his eyes.

Strong yet gentle hands stopped his progress with the shirt.

“Rem, look at me.”

“Still wanna see de movie, chere?”

“We’ve missed this much. It ain’t gonna matter if we’re a little later.”

“Suit y’self,” Remy shrugged cavalierly. Logan was also only half-dressed. He tugged Remy’s tee from his grip and chucked it onto the hood of the car, then tugged him over to lean back against it.

Logan held his hand, lacing their fingers together again, knowing anything more was too tempting, that he already felt too exposed. It was the easiest thing in the world to succumb to the call of what lay between them, but Logan needed straight talk, something he wouldn’t get if he continued to attack Remy’s mouth.

“Whatsamatter, bub? I do somethin’ ta bother ya? Hurt ya?”

“Non, cher. Not’in’ ya did.”

“I ain’t convinced right now.” Tension thrummed in Remy’s forearm, and Logan tightened his grip on him. The kid was trying to pull away from him. He wouldn’t make it easy. “Ya know things have been gettin’ kinda heavy between us.”

“It’s been fun,” Remy pointed out.

“Damn right it has. I ain’t gonna lie.” Remy cleared his throat.

“And ya don’ hafta. No matter what ya ever hafta tell Remy, ya don’ ever hafta mince words or leave anyt’in’ out.”

“Rem,” Logan blurted out. “Maybe this is goin’ too fast.”

The damning words were out in the open.

“Ya t’ink so.”

“No. I’m wonderin’ if you think so.”

“It ain’t dat Remy t’inks it’s goin’ too fast. Jus’ dat he wonders where ya were wantin’ t’see it go. ‘Cuz I ain’ dat sure m’self. An’ Remy got a lil’ secret, mec.”

“Okay.” Logan stiffened. He hated secrets.

He braced himself. Whatever it was, it was either something they could surpass and overcome together with the truth, or it would provide him with the easy goodbye that he searched for the moment they met eyes, when they felt that electricity.

But goodbye was never easy. Only inevitable…

Remy felt the emotions brewing within Logan, the anticipation, that…unhappy sense of satisfaction a person had when they realized I knew it. I knew this wouldn’t work.

Remy spoke, not wanting to leave Logan in suspense. “I can feel you. What yer feelin’, homme.”

“So ya just have good instincts.”

“Non. More den dat.” Logan’s chuckle died.

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean I feel what ya feel.”

“Like a friggin’ mind reader?”

“Non.” Remy eyed him levelly. “An empat’.”

“Are ya shittin’ me. Tell me yer shittin’ me.”

“Non.”

“So…what? Does that take the guess work outta bein’ together?”

“Hell, naw. Jus’ said I ain’ a mind reader, mec.”

“But ya know my feelin’s.”

“Oui.”

Logan suddenly felt hollow, like someone indeed carved out his insides with a shining ice cream scoop, gouging through him and dumping the contents out on the ground for the world to see.

“So as an empath…ya feel what I do. There anything else to it?”

“Like what?”

“Well, c’mon, Rem…” Logan carefully removed himself from their bond, shaking his fingers loose. “Ya read feelin’s. How about controllin’ ‘em?”

“Excuse de fuck outta me,” Remy murmured incredulously. “Maybe I’m hearin’ t’ings, but did ya jus’ accuse me of manipulatin’ how ya feel? Jus’ so’m not mistaken…wanna run dat by me again?” Heat crept into his cheeks, along with an ugly buzzing in his ears. He sat up from the hood and took back his shirt, jerking it back on. Logan was almost grateful not to have the distraction of his bare chest tempting him to touch him again. He sighed heavily, rubbing his nape.

“Whaddya want me ta think?”

“I wan’ ya t’trust me, mec,” Remy said flatly. “But m’ gettin’ de impression dat ya might not be down wit’ dat.”

“It ain’t that I don’t wanna trust you,” Logan argued.

He emphasized you like that made a difference.

What they had was more tenuous than Remy wanted to admit, still so much more fragile than he’d even guessed.

“I’ve dealt with bullshit before,” Logan continued. “It’s been a while since I’ve had ta deal with anyone else’s but my own. If we take this any further…”

“Because Remy’s tossed so much shit on yer doorstep up until now,” Remy hissed, interrupting him. “My mistake. T’ought I kept m’own dirty laundry to m’self.”

“Ya have, kid…damn it!” He tossed Logan his shirt, practically throwing it in his face.

“G’wan. Get in. No point hangin’ ‘round fo’ someone t’turn on de lights, non?” Remy was back in the driver’s seat in a flash and had the key in the ignition, door slammed lickety-split. Logan blinked at the sudden glare of the headlights and the radio’s blare as the car rumbled to life. Frustration swamped him.

They drove back onto the freeway, both content to just listen to the radio once a game came on. Logan didn’t trust himself not to talk over music or to be even a little irritated over whatever song that played while he felt like this.

Their first argument. Possibly their last. He already wanted to erase the taste of it from his mouth, rewind, delete, anything to negate the past twenty minutes.

Absently Remy caught sight of the air freshener still tucked into the grill. He punched the window control and rolled it down, snatched the clip loose and tossed the cartridge into the rushing wind.

“Didn’t hafta litter,” Logan mumbled.

“Don’ give a shit right now,” he replied, leaving the window down so the fresh air could clear his head.

A few minutes later, as Remy found the exit for downtown, Logan roused himself from the spell woven by the racing, flickering lights of the line of cars and streetlights when they neared the intersection.

“Rem, I’m sorry.”

“Ya tol’ me how ya feel. Don’ be sorry.”

“I didn’t mean ta sound like an ass in the process.” Remy shrugged, but he wouldn’t look at him.

“Eh. Guess ya can’t help it if de truth sounds like shit, non?” Remy glanced at him briefly, then deprived Logan of his glowing ruby eyes when he turned back to his driving. No distractions, this time. Logan read his intent loud and clear.

They pulled into the movie multiplex parking lot and found a spot up front. 

“What’s that smell?” Logan murmured, wrinkling his nose again.

“Not’in,” Remy insisted as he set the parking brake.

“It ain’t just the vanilla.”

“Shoudn’t be anyt’in. Car’s clean,” he shrugged.

“I guess…” They got out of the car, and Logan put that thought aside. Remy almost appreciated the change of subject. Almost.

They shrugged off the ticket clerk’s observation that they’d already missed a chunk of the seven o’clock showing, and wouldn’t they prefer the nine? 

“Two,” Remy argued, shoving a twenty under the slot. The clerk sighed and counted off his change with a rapid flick of her long, hot pink nails.

“Enjoy the show.”

“Merci,” Remy said with a wink that made her mouth drop open in lust. Logan scowled at his back as he followed him into the lobby.

He ordered the popcorn and sprang for it before Remy could take any more money out of his wallet. 

“Extra butter? And an extra large 7-Up?”

“Remy don’ wan’ anyt’in’.”

“If ya change yer mind, we share. If not, no big deal,” Logan said matter-of-factly. His voice was overly patient. Remy snorted under his breath.

“Jamie?”

Logan jerked his head toward the familiar voice and his gut wound itself into a hard knot.

_Walt._

His former lover’s blue eyes were riveted on him, quickly drinking in every detail before they darted to Remy. They narrowed. 

The closer he came, the more Remy found himself tipping his head back to look up…then up…

“Damn,” he muttered. Logan was right. Walter was huge.

“Small world,” Logan offered. “How’s it goin’.”

“Some coincidence, huh? Hey.” He automatically thrust his hand out to Remy. Remy juggled the soda to his opposite hand and gripped it, then nearly regretted it. Walt apparently didn’t know his own strength. Remy’s fingers throbbed when Walter was done pumping his arm off in greeting. “You are…?”

“LeBeau. Remy.”

“Walter Langkowski. Which show are you here to see?” he asked Logan. Remy’s brows drew together.

“Terminator.”

“We got seats right in the middle. Showed up early.”

“Almost didn’t make it,” Logan admitted. His face flushed with the memory of why.

“Always used to be pretty punctual.”

“Ran into a few obstacles.” Namely Remy’s pants…and his sneakers…and his briefs…and his- “No point in missin’ any more of the show. Don’t let us keep ya.”

“I’m just getting a refill on the popcorn,” he said nonchalantly, holding up the empty bucket. Out of the corner of Remy’s eye, something in blue and black swam into view from the roped-off entrance.

“Walt! Shake a leg! Thought ya were just gonna get a refill, not the whole damned counter.” The owner of that gruff, raspy voice lumbered over and clapped a large hand over Walt’s shoulder, a clear sign of possession. His chest grazed Walter’s back, and Logan and Remy were astonished to see that this new visitor was easily as tall as he was, with thick blond hair clubbed back in a ponytail. He was dressed casually in a black ribbed wifebeater and faded jeans. Snakeskin cowboy boots shod his feet.

“Hold your horses,” Walt offered, smirking. He snaked his arm around his waist and never took his eyes off of Logan as his friend leaned in and bit his neck. “Vic…Logan.” He nodded to him. “And…?”

“Remy,” he repeated, fighting the urge to walk off without any further pleasantry. His cool red-on-black eyes whispered Fuck off.

He felt a tug at his waistband, felt his body being shifted slightly as Logan’s finger threaded itself through one of his belt loops. He was suddenly close enough to feel his warm breath fanning over his shoulder as he spoke.

“We ain’t gonna keep ya.” Logan nodded to Vic. “Don’t be a cheap date.”

“Bye, guys,” Vic purred, saluting them. Scorn dripped from his smile. Walt’s eyes followed them, full of questions. 

Remy felt his disappointment radiating from him and fought a tiny smile of triumph. He squelched it when Logan’s frustration drifted around him, but it was tempered by relief.

The movie was in full swing. Explosions and Dolby sound assailed them as soon as they made it to the aisle, wisely sitting up in the back. Remy noticed Walt and Vic making their way back toward the front not even two minutes later, without the popcorn, but Vic leaned his head back and popped what looked like a Mike and Ike from the box he held into his mouth.

The tension drained from them bit by bit as they watched the escapism before them, getting lost in the story and special effects. They munched the popcorn down to the dregs and shared the soda, parking it in the armrest between them.

Before that night, they would have held hands, teasing each other.

Walt. Just what Logan’s night needed. _Great_.

“Be back in a sec,” Logan murmured. “Men’s.”

“Lemme let ya out.” Remy leaned back as far as he could against the seat to let him get by, as though his touch would scorch him. Logan read him loud and clear. The kid was still mad at him.

He counted the pattern blocks in the carpet on his way to the rest room, remembering his theater number. He made a beeline for the urinal, wincing at the scent of the air freshener that wafted up to his nostrils, but at least it was justified.

He’d no sooner unzipped then he heard heavy footsteps behind him over the sound of his own stream hitting the porcelain. He felt eyes on his back, then saw a lumbering, large figure in his periphery, unzipping at the basin next to him.

“Small world, eh?” Vic stared straight ahead, but Logan still felt scrutinized.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“Thought about the later show, but Walt has ta get up ta make a few mornin’ appointments. Know how busy he is, eh?”

“Can’t nail him down. Hardworkin’ man.” 

“Didn’t say I couldn’t nail him down.” Logan’s expression didn’t change.

He knew when he was being baited.

“Hard ta convince him when it’s time ta take a load off. Gotta remind him when ta eat, sometimes.”

“I bet.”

“He still likes havin’ someone ta come home to. Work at a lumber yard, myself. Up early. Home early. He always knows where I am.”

“Lucky fer Walt.” Logan ignored the feel of blue eyes sizing him up…literally…as he glanced down, over the partition between them. 

Vic huffed. “Don’t wanna keep a good man guessin’. Not when he treats me so well, y’know?”

“Then yer probably good fer him,” Logan agreed. He gave himself a brief shake, flicking off one last droplet before he backed away. The hands-free sensor triggered itself just as he zipped up and headed for the sink.

“So why were ya really late, bub?”

“Don’t see why ya need t’know.”

“Guess ya wouldn’t see why. I can smell him all over ya.” Logan punched the button on the soap dispenser needlessly hard and scrubbed his hands briskly under the warm spray.

“Then why even ask? Ya already think ya know everything, even though there ain’t anything ta know.” If Logan was even remotely surprised about Vic’s observation about his scent, he didn’t give him an inkling.

He thought better of it as he took his leave, eyeing Vic’s reflection beside him at the sink. “A word?”

“Shoot?”

“When he stops bein’ happy with yer reason fer why ya show up late, even if it’s just gettin’ caught in traffic…pack yer shit.”

*

Logan didn’t know why he bothered warning him. Walt was a big boy, he could take care of himself. Ditto for his new squeeze. Logan almost feared for his ex’s safety.

Logan and Remy didn’t stay to read the credits. They nimbly skirted around the crowd, cutting through rows of seats until they made it to the exit ahead of Walt and Vic. Remy felt jarred by the sudden dispersion of emotions as the crowd filed out of the theater. They returned to the lot, much to Logan’s relief.

They said little as they climbed into the car.

“Looked like the Bobsy Twins,” Logan muttered.

“No shit,” Remy agreed, but he wasn’t smiling. Then he added “He actually reminded me of you.”

“Get outta here with that shit.”

“Naw. He did. Had that same hard, wild look ‘round de eyes dat y’get sometimes. An’ somet’in bout de set of his mouth.”

“Hard an’ wild. Geez.”

“Ain’t an insult. Jus’ once in a great while, homme, ya change. Ya seem to retreat inta yerself. Don’ let anyone in.”

“I ain’t Fort Knox. I just ain’t a pushover. Not anymore.”

The niggling scent was back, irritating him. Where had he smelled it before?

It wasn’t incense, thank goodness. Silver had loved that crap, and she’d even tried to bring his apartment in line with her feng shui kick for a while. Logan clearly remembered having to rearrange his furniture after they broke up. The incense sticks were the first thing he threw out.

It wasn’t potpourri. It almost reminded him of cigarette smoke, but it wasn’t any tobacco that Logan had smelled. His own taste ran toward a good Cuban cigar once in a blue moon.

It was just…strange. Definitely organic.

“Ya haven’t carried fertilizer in yer trunk lately?”

“Last I checked, I live in an apartment, cher,” he pointed out.

They had more pressing matters laying between them, but Logan focused on that, giving it more attention than it deserved.

His nose never lied to him. Unlike people.

Then it came back to him.

Before Logan met Walt, shortly before he’d dropped out of college, he’d dated a girl named Mariko. International student, gorgeous smile. Her father made his fortune in wholesaling, or so she said. Her roommate Itsu ran a little wild. Between the two of them, she was the slob who drank the last of the milk without buying more.

Sometimes, when Mariko invited him to stay the night, Logan grimaced at the smell lingering in the living room, or emanating from Itsu’s bedroom that often made him want to take Mariko back to his own place. It reminded him of burning hay, even slightly reminiscent of the pet food sold at the grain mill down the road.

“I wish she wouldn’t do that,” Mariko tsked.

“Do what?”

“Get high.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Nope. She keeps it in the medicine cabinet. Little Ziploc baggies. I even caught her with some plants she was keeping for someone else. I almost kicked her out.”

*

“Shit,” Logan murmured.

“What?”

“Shit,” Logan repeated. “That’s what that is.”

“Run that by me again?”

“Pot,” Logan asserted.

“Naw it ain’t.” Remy scowled and impatiently tapped his fingers to the radio, this time tuned to an oldies station.

But he breathed in that scent more objectively. Logan caught his chest expanding more broadly, nostrils flaring as he tried to determine what he smelled.

“Ya know I’m right,” Logan said quietly.

Remy said nothing.

Inside, he panicked.

_Julien_. Bella protected him again. Remy washed his hands of him, time and time again, only for the stain to remain.

He felt Logan’s feelings of betrayal and shrank back. Those dark eyes accused him one more time before he turned away, staring out the window.

They were miserable the rest of the way home.

Remy gave it long, hard thought, arriving at one conclusion that could compromise everything. It was the only way.

Remy parked in the street, letting Logan out. He was already reaching for the keys to his truck and crossing the street, not planning to kiss Remy goodnight.

He reached his truck and paused.

Hope flared in Remy’s chest, fleeting but precious.

“Rem? Don’t ya have anything ta say?”

_It’s better this way, chere_.

“Non.”

Logan drove off without another word.


	12. Like Undertow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old addictions die hard. So do memories of old heartbreaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last update was all over the place, so I’m sorry. But hello? It’s too much fun to write a lemon scene, and for me, an argument as well. Arguments, embarrassing moments and smut, that’s what you’ll get from my fics. All of them.
> 
> Thank you for the beautiful feedback and attention you’ve given this story, one of my earliest LoMy pieces. Artwork might eventually follow, I’m up in the air, and it’s hard to find nice reference photos that fit what I’m looking for without getting the bottom of the barrel from an unfiltered Google search…*shudders* Check out my DeviantArt account for the LoMy folder of my gallery. I also back those files up on Livejournal under padnats_forever.

Damn. Too sweet…

Bella grimaced and automatically dumped her too-pale cup of coffee down the drain after one sip. Rene chattered away by her elbow as she continued making breakfast, but he wasn’t her principal distraction.

“We havin’ bacon, Maman?”

“Y’know it, petit,” she promised absently as she laid the tepid pink strips of meat in the skillet. “Wash y’hands.”

Rene proceeded to make a mess of the dish soap, humming tunelessly while Bella assembled the other ingredients and turned up the heat on the skillet. Her nerves were on edge, and she had a tension headache from grinding her teeth the night before.

It was happening all over again.

Julien’s mail was coming to the house, even after he promised her that he’d get himself a post office box. Bella fumed to herself, so afraid that she’d come unglued.

_It’s jus’ til I get m’own place. Won’ even hafta stick around dis county pretty soon, chere. Need a physical address._

She didn’t want to be accountable for him. She wasn’t her brother’s keeper. Not anymore.

She fought back the bitter, tight little smile as she remembered that he was her older brother. He’d feigned protectiveness of her.

He was jealous. Julien was a fraud. _A fraud._

*

“Bella, c’mere.”

“What? M’busy.”

“Aw, c’mon, chere,” Remy whined. He crossed the room and dragged her to her feet from where she reclined. She was all too reluctant to leave their queen-sized bed and its fluffy duvet when she was so exhausted.

Pregnancy sucked. Belladonna didn’t glow, in her humble opinion. Not unless you counted the flush of color that was left behind every time she bolted into the bathroom to hug the porcelain.

He tugged her along after him until she wrested her hand away from him. “Don’ rush me. Still feel like shit, Remy.”

“Awww,” Remy crooned, gently wrapping his arms around her waist. He could still accomplish that easily, since she was only four and a half months along. He kissed her cheek, and she sighed. “Still crummy, huh?”

“Don’ be gettin’ any ideas, chere.”

“Like what?” he asked innocently, pulling her further into his embrace. She braced her hands against his shoulders, halfheartedly shoving him back, but her fingers curled in his shirt collar.

“Y’know what. Ain’ in de mood t’play.” Her breasts were tender and swollen, unfortunately making them even more tempting to Remy. He loved caressing and soaping them in the shower, lately the only location where she welcomed his advances due to the soothing warm water.

“Ya in de mood fo’ somet’in’ fun, den?”

“Like what?”

“C’mon.” He nudged her in the direction of the kitchen.

Bella gasped, hands flying up to her mouth.

“Oh, my…” Her words failed her, and she turned to him with tears in her blue eyes. But when she let her hands drop, Remy was relieved to see her smiling, even laughing. “Look what ya went an did!”

Remy walked over to the large box and patted it. “Can’ wait t’put it together, eh petit?” The battery-operated swing was light blue and brand new, sporting kids’ show characters on the seat.

“It cost money,” she pointed out, but she was stil admiring it. “Where’d y’get it?”

Remy’s smile faltered a bit. “Julien.”

“Shit,” she muttered. “Where’d he get de money?”

“Said he had a lil’ somet’in’ set aside an’ he wanted t’get somet’in fo’ de baby. Said he couldn’ wait, chere. C’mon, tell Remy ya don’ like it!” he urged, gently spooning against her back and snuggling her. His hands palmed her belly protectively and he kissed her shoulder.

Guilt niggled at him, but he pushed it back down. This was a special moment for them to share, and them alone.

Belladonna’s pregnancy flourished and bloomed over the coming weeks. She carried high and round and was lit from the inside out with a radiant light. Remy never found her more beautiful, even while he dealt with her mood swings and complaints. He treated her as though she was made of glass in bed, frequently only holding her when she was too uncomfortable to make love.

It was killing him. So much of his desire and physical need was squelched and stifled, so many nights in a row. His thoughts drifted back to that clandestine, lazy afternoon. Julien’s stain still lingered on his flesh, marking him.

Julien stalked him throughout the house. He always found him alone and took advantage of any moment where he could steal a touch or a grope. Remy was loading the washer one afternoon in the hall while Bella dozed on the couch.

“How long ya gon’ take t’finish up? I need it next,” Julien grumbled from behind him. Remy flinched; he hadn’t even heard him approach. He was so close, Remy could almost feel Julien’s shins graze his own calves. Bent over the dryer while he changed loads, he felt vulnerable and at a disadvantage.

“Done in a sec.” He tried to straighten up.

Julien’s hand clapped his shoulder, gripping him to hold him still.

“What de fuck…? Leggo, now!”

“Ain’ in any hurry, now,” Julien slurred, grasping Remy’s hip and pulling him back against him. He ground against Remy’s ass so hard that the large, stiff knob beneath Julien’s jeans chafed his crease. Remy braced himself against the washer’s cool metal and pushed back, still struggling to rise. “Stay down,” Julien gritted through his teeth.

“Get de fuck off me!” Remy hissed, but he kept his voice low. His pulse raced and he felt his heart jittering in his chest. A cold sweat broke out over his skin. Bella was down the hall. He heard her deep breathing change to low snores from the couch.

Remy smelled alcohol on Julien’s breath. He was more aggressive with liquor in his system than when he was stoned. The fumes bathed Remy’s nape as he leaned over him, holding him down against the washer. The scent mingled with his panic, making him slightly sick.

He felt Julien’s smugness keenly, almost reading his mind. If Remy cried out, Bella would wake up. She would know.

Remy told himself that she might already know, that he had to give her more credit for having more insight…but she couldn’t. She couldn’t know, surely.

Julien jerked Remy’s jeans down his hips, scraping his skin roughly; he didn’t even reach around to unzip them. Remy winced at the discomfort and twisted around, swatting at his hands. Julien wasn’t having any of it.

His fist thumped Remy’s upper spine, the impact cramming his gut against the washer so hard it bruised his ribs. Remy felt nauseous, and it intensified when Julien reached into the back of his briefs, molesting him.

“Don’t,” Remy whimpered. Through the fist of terror squeezing his chest, Remy felt his body betraying him, dick rising while Julien roughly groped him.

“Miss me, chere?” he drawled, steaming his nape. Remy steeled himself and whipped his face away from him when he tried to brush his lips over the crest of his cheek. “T’ink ya did.”

“Fuck off,” Remy hissed. “I’ll make some noise. Wake Bella up. Don’ t’ink I’m shittin’ you when I say dat, mec.”

“Den g’wan an’ do it. What’re ya waitin’ for, mon frere?” The endearment made what was happening to Remy more obscene, an even bigger sacrilege. Remy struggled, physically and with the implications of what he was saying.

Shame colored his decision.

Julien’s fingers slid into his tender crease, caressing his taint. Remy shivered when he bit his shoulder, mixing pleasure with pain.

“What’re ya waitin’ for, huh?” he repeated, taunting him. Remy closed his eyes and bit back a moan as he probed his pucker, barely dilating the ring of muscle with his fingertip. “Pretty tight, homme. T’ink ya’ve been waitin’ fo’ me. Wantin’ it pretty bad, since de last time.”

“Shut up,” he insisted, voice unsteady. He gasped as Julien roughly worked his finger inside.

“Damn, baby, must’ve missed me pretty bad.” Remy hated himself when pleasure seeped through his rage a drop a a time, making his body arch and jerk in time to Julien’s thrusting hand.

“Don’t…”

“Don’t, what?” Julien murmured thoughtfully. “Can’t hear ya…”

“Don’t…please…”

“Still can’t understand, Remy.” He gave his fingers a savage twist, two of them filling him, scissoring and thrusting, barely grazing his prostrate. Remy’s hips butted back against him, leaning back into his strokes, pulling him deeper.

“Don’t…stop…”

“Dat’s what I t’ought ya said, chere,” Julien grated out. He yanked Remy’s briefs down until they were hammocked around his thighs. Remy heard the stiff rip of his zipper and felt the separated denim flaps chafe his ass as Julien readied himself. He pumped the head of his dick a few times to gather up the precum; he’d begun dripping as soon as he touched Remy. It was always like that, and Remy denying the hold he had on him enhanced it, made it sweeter when he took him.

Remy bit his lip, exhaling hot gusts through his nose as he fought against crying out. Julien breached him, pressing home in one vicious thrust. His fingers dug into Remy’s supple hips as he began to rut. Julien’s breath shook.

“Ahhh…Gawd,” he grunted in Remy’s ear before biting the shell, adding insult to injury, but Remy’s nipples were hard, smarting with arousal with every slam of Julien’s cock. Remy gripped the washer and leaned his forehead against the cool metal and enamel, closing his eyes against the shame flooding him. They snapped open again when Julien’s hand snaked between his legs and found his weeping cock, ringing it in his fist.

He rode Remy’s ass, feeling it pulse and squeeze around him, burning him, pushing him to fuck him faster, harder, to mark him, stain him with the memory of his body at his back. Remy’s teeth rattled as he shunted into him even harder, pounding him and unerringly hitting his prostate every time. His body exploded in a rush of savage fulfillment and tingles. He felt Julien’s seed coat his insides in a hot flood.

Moments later, they collected themselves. Julien retreated into his cluttered room. Remy finished changing the laundry load and headed for the kitchen, on the hunt for some aspirin.

The sight he found froze him in the living room entry. He swallowed roughly.

“Belle,” he said hoarsely.

“Bastard,” she hissed. She laid back on the sofa with a cushion hugged to her chest, doing nothing to obscure her burgeoning stomach. Tears streamed down her cheeks, turning her mascara into muddy rivers.

“How. Could. You.”

*

“MAMAN! Is it ready?”

“Shit!” she hissed before she could stop herself.

“You said a bad word,” Rene reminded her solemnly.

“Sorry, baby,” she offered as she turned off the burner and probed the dark strips with a spatula. Three pieces of it were salvageable. She threw the rest of the burnt meat into the trash and poured the bacon grease into a jar.

She served Rene the bacon and a piece of toast with strawberry jam, since he was indifferent to eggs unless Remy made them for him, over easy.

The memories were always worse when Julien was around.

Their father’s voice was the one that swayed her to keep Julien in their home when his case was finally heard in court. Their parents lived fifty miles away in the next county. Julien had to reside in the county of his arrest to be eligible to serve the rest of his sentence at home.

By that time, Remy was long gone…

*

The baby was the glue that held Remy and Belladonna together for several more months after his birth. They set aside their differences long enough to fall in love with the tiny, precious little soul who had them wrapped around his little finger.

When they fought, it was over his well-being, over who was the better parent. They skirted around the issue of Remy’s indiscretions, bound by financial necessity and the need for privacy around Bella’s family when they came to visit. Those days were excruciating for Remy, knowing so much had to be left unsaid and undisturbed.

Things took a turn for the better when Jean-Luc offered Remy the chance to come to work for him, hearing all the things Remy left unsaid whenever they spoke, reading between the lines of bullshit about how “me an’ Bella are doin’ fine.” Remy kept his full-time job at the auto parts and quick lube store downtown and spent every other waking hour at Jean-Luc and Sons Racing and Auto under his father’s watchful eye, learning every trick of the trade. It was exhausting but fulfilling work, and it distracted him from the drama at home. He developed a steadfast hatred of Julien, working for the day that they could remove Julien from the lease or that they could move out themselves. It sickened Remy to owe him so much, even while letting Julien leech from them in so many other ways.

Remy became a doting father, but his marriage to Belladonna was so strained and frail. They seldom made love, and when they did, it was mechanical, with the two of them going through the motions, a parody of what they once had. He still found her beautiful, and it broke his heart a little more when she ignored him or brushed past him whenever he entered a room. It was his own fault. The only time she allowed him close was when she held the baby, when he would approach to kiss his plump cheek or tickle him to hear him coo. She smiled at Remy for Rene’s benefit to reassure him that he was surrounded by love.

Thing changed when they nearly lost him.

*

It was always a struggle getting out the door. Belladonna cursed under her breath as she searched high and low for Rene’s left sneaker.

“C’mon, now, Rene, we don’ have all day! Where’d ya leave de ot’er one?”

“Dunno, Maman,” he shrugged, distracting himself with his red Power Ranger that he found between the couch cushions. She made a ragged sound in her throat and continued to tear apart Rene’s room looking for it. She kicked aside a heap of Julien’s discarded clothes, caring little about whether she might be stepping on anything valuable.

She found the errant sneaker and unknotted the laces as she made her way back to the living room.

“Petit, I want ya t’start puttin’ yer shoes in de kitchen, on de mat by the back door.”

“Okay, Maman,” he shrugged as she fought his feet into his shoes. She knelt before him while he sat on the coffee table and propped his small foot on her knee while she tied the laces in snug double bows. She sighed.

“Ready?”

“Uh-huh,” he said brightly.

“Go ta de bathroom one more time, petit.”

“Awww!”

“Go,” she ordered simply. He threw up his hands and left the room in a huff.

Bella locked the door behind them and bundled him into the car. The weather was gray and she smelled impending rain, but they wouldn’t be out long. Rene chattered away, filling her ears as they drove to Toys R Us. 

“Can I have a Dragon Ball Zee cake, Maman?”

“Jus’ lemme know, petit. Gotta order it de day before,” she reminded him.

“Or maybe the Hulk.”

“De Hulk’s fine, if ya want.”

“Luke got Hulk plates an’ Hulk cake an’ Hulk balloons for his birthday,” Rene informed her.

“Dat’s nice, petit.”

“But I want Dragon Ball Zee cake,” he insisted. Bella sighed as she turned into the lot and parked up front.

She thanked heaven that he agreed to have his birthday at Chuck E Cheese, saving Bella the indignity of trying to hold it with Julien lurking around, or at the risk of their guests walking past his room and seeing any of this paraphernalia laying around. It felt too much like they way it was before, as though his shadow lingered throughout the house, and they all had to keep too many secrets.

They hopped out and grabbed a shopping cart on their way inside. Belladonna hoped it wouldn’t give Rene ideas of wanting to buy something big enough that they would need it.

He made a beeline for the action figures aisle, reaching for the WWE packs that held two for one with all of their homely accessories that invariably ended up between Bella’s couch cushions. At least they were cheap.

“Look, it’s Chris Jericho,” he pointed out.

“Ya have t’ree of ‘em, don’t ya?”

“Not dis one,” he insisted. “Dis one has his championship belt.”

A belt. That was the only difference…she let out a gusty sigh. Same grimace, same bizarre camo pants and gloves that looked like ripped up shirt sleeves, same homely grimace and wild, flowing mullet hair, but to Rene, the little plastic belt with its gold foil seal in the center made it a completely different wrestling superstar. She tossed it into the cart.

She let him pick out two more toys. He was her only child and therefore enjoyed the privilege of being spoiled rotten on his birthdays every year. It wasn’t much compensation for his parents living in separate homes and seeing too little of his father, but it took the edge off of Bella’s guilt. There was something comforting about shopping with Rene, hearing him chatter on and temporarily stepping into his world.

They ended up selecting a Sonic the Hedgehog video game that Bella decided wasn’t too violent, denying his request for “Road Rash” and its mature rating. 

“Whaddya want for lunch, petit?”

“Pizza!”

“’Course ya do,” she muttered as she loaded the gifts onto the conveyor belt. She pretended the total didn’t give her a heart attack and hastily dashed off a check. The cashier tucked her receipt in the bag and flirted with Rene.

“Someone having a birthday?”

“Me!” he piped up.

“Save me some cake!”

“We’re having it at Chuck E Cheese,” Rene shrugged. “Ya can’t have any ‘til then.” Belladonna smothered a laugh and waved goodbye to the cashier over his head as they left.

“Hold my hand, Rene.” Bella steered the cart into the rack before they went to cross the lot.

“Maman…look!” She turned and looked in the direction of his stubby finger.

“Ain’t polite t’point, Rene.”

“It’s m’sieu Logan!” he cried. “LOGAN!” he called out, waving furiously. Bella squinted at the stocky man who looked up at the sound of his name. He paused, smiled, and changed his direction.

“Hey,” he rumbled easily as he approached. Bella was surprised when Rene released her hand and hurried to him. “OOPH!” the man grunted as Rene glomped him.

“RENE!” she snapped. “Ya can’t-“

“It’s okay,” the man reassured her, holding up his hands. “He knows me. I’m a friend of his pop’s.” Bella’s eyes raked over him like she didn’t believe him.

“C’mere, Rene,” she ordered curtly. He obeyed reluctantly, rejoining his mother.

“Dis is Logan,” he repeated. “He bought me pizza at Daddy’s show.”

“He has this thing about pizza,” Logan offered. 

His eyes were kind. He was somewhat older than Belladonna, that much she could tell right off the bat. He wore a slightly battered Stetson and denim jacket. He tipped up the hat so she had a better view of his face.

“How ya know Remy?”

“Met downtown a coupla times. We both love cars,” Logan said.

“Cars, huh?”

“Maman, m’sieu Logan drives a big truck,” Rene announced proudly.

“He does, huh?”

“Logan, you hafta come t’my birthday at Chuck E Cheese,” Rene insisted. “We’re having Dragon Ball cake. You hafta tell Papa ya wanna come.” Logan reached up and rubbed his nape. Bella noticed he looked slightly uncomfortable.

“We’ll leave that up ta yer pop, okay, buddy?”

“But ya have to!”

“Um…”

“M’sieu might be busy, petit,” Bella interjected. Her back was up, which was bad enough, having her son talk to strange men. But why did Logan seem to close up at the mention of Remy? 

Or at the possibility of seeing him again? 

Before Belladonna could run through any scenarios in her head, Logan nodded to her. “I’m gonna go. Rene, happy birthday, okay?”

Rene shook off his mother’s grip and hurried forward. “G’bye, Logan! Don’t forget my party!” His hug was tight and sudden and made Logan’s eyes prick. He cleared his throat.

“Behave yerself. And if ya can’t behave yerself, don’t get caught.” He patted him awkwardly and left.

Belladonna ran the meeting through her brain several times on the ride home. None of the possibilities made her happy. Their encounter opened the floodgates for Rene to sing Logan’s praises.

“He liked Straight Flush, Maman. But Coyote Ugly is his favorite one of Papa’s cars.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He likes pepperoni.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He said I couldn’t eat my boogers if I wanted ta have a girlfriend, but I told him I didn’t wanna girlfriend.”

“Uh-huh.” Then she absently mentioned “Probably oughta leave dose boogers alone anyway, sweet pea.”

They returned home and fixed a frozen crisp crust pizza for lunch. Belladonna sat down and made out party invitations and phoned the bakery, ordering a quarter-sheet chocolate cake. It was a relief to be home until she noticed the mess Julien made of the bathroom. She hauled several dirty dishes and cups out of Rene’s bedroom, cursing under her breath. It sucked living with a man…Remy at least had a little house training before they moved in.

She felt like she was drowning. Every time she swam free, Julien just dragged her back under until she couldn’t breathe.

She watched her son inhale his pizza and laugh at his Spongebob show, one he’d watched at least a dozen times.

She wouldn’t let him drown, too.


	13. Permission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More flashbacks and explanations. And Remy receives a grim reminder of why his past could hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julien is DEFINITELY a dick.

_Seven years ago:_

 

“Whaddya mean, yer goin’ out?” Bella stood with her arms folded, indignant as she watched Remy move about their bedroom.

“I mean what it sounds like. Remy’s goin’ out. Deal wit’ it.”

“Non. Uh-uh. You deal wit’ it, chere. S’ my turn t’go out. You went out last week.”

“And Remy’s goin’ out again.”

“Non. My friends called me first. I had plans first. Dat means Remy’s de one stayin’ home.”

“Bullshit. Dat means Bella can tell her friends ‘not tonight.’”

“Naw. No ya don’t,” she threatened, blue eyes snapping with anger. Remy huffed, grabbing his cologne from the drawer and spraying a liberal amount across his chest, abdomen and neck. 

“Iron dis shirt, it’s wrinkled.” He tossed a black pullover at her. She let it hit the floor.

“Don’ have to, if ya ain’t goin’ anywhere, Remy! It’s MY turn t’go out!”

“Shoulda t’ought ‘bout dat earlier, chere, and called a sitter.”

“No, YOU shoulda called a sitter. Ya knew I wuz goin’ out tonight!” Bella was done with being calm. She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Been plannin’ dis all week long! Already have my friends comin’ over in fifteen minutes.”

“Dat’s bullshit. Anna Marie’s always runnin’ late. Try an hour,” Remy challenged, but irritation seeped into his voice despite his best “kiss my ass” grin. “Plenty of time t’get a sitter.”

“Rene’s asleep. Ain’t any trouble fo’ Remy t’jus’ stay here. I ain’t gonna wake him.”

“Dat’s fine. Stay here, won’ be nuthin’ t’worry about, chere.”

“Asshole!” she hissed.

“Dat wuzn’t very nice,” Remy claimed.

“Ain’t gotta be nice. M’goin’ out.” Bella continued getting ready, retreating to the bathroom to continue working on her hair. Remy sputtered, smile gone now.

“Yer stayin’ home. I’m goin’ ta watch de match. Nate bought it on Pay per View.”

“Tell Nate yer sorry, den. I’m goin’ out. Wouldn’t hafta go out wit’ Anna Marie if someone would take me out ev’ry now an’ again. Fuck you and yer fight.”

Remy’s face darkened with anger. His eyes were so dilated they were almost black. “Non. YOU look.” He backed her up until her ass hit the edge of the bathroom sink.

“Back de fuck up,” Bella hissed, nonplussed.

“Listen,” he hissed through his teeth, “ya can go out any ot’er night but dis one, Bella. Yer stayin’ home. It’s as simple as dat.”

“Sonofa-“ She had her hand raised to slap him, and Bella gripped the hair dryer tightly in the other when someone knocked sharply on the door.

Bella fumed. It was all she could do to remain cool enough to answer the door, which she did only after mouthing the words Fuck off at him on her way down the hall.

It was always a power play. Rene was nearly a year old, and Remy and Bella were already diverging in different directions. Bella was restless and frustrated in the wake of Remy’s betrayal. Remy felt the same, and his guilt still didn’t outweigh the inevitable, namely that they didn’t have enough to go on anymore, to justify staying together.

He could have let her go out. Nate called him at the last minute, after he originally said he wasn’t going to order the fight the week before. It was an afterthought on Remy’s part to tell him he’d come. The world wouldn’t end, the sky wouldn’t fall, and Nate wouldn’t shed a tear if Remy begged off.

But he needed to get out of the apartment for the night and not think about the shambles of his marriage, or wallow in the fact that it was his fault.

Bella wanted to go out. Dance, drink, laugh and have adult conversations with someone who wasn’t a pediatrician or her mother; all of that was on her to-do list. For a few hours, she wanted to pretend and forget. Her friends wouldn’t disappear if she didn’t go out for one night, certainly; they’d waited this long, several months since the last time she’d taken them up on an invitation.

All of her fledgling plans went out the window as she eyed the state trooper in his beige uniform. Belladonna’s scowl evaporated, replaced by ugly shock. A cold, leaden knot settled in her stomach.

“Are you Belladonna Beudreaux?”

“Oui,” she said, nodding numbly. If she thought it odd that he used her maiden name, she gave no sign.

“I’m here to talk to you about your brother,” he said carefully, taking a moment to peer down at a slip of paper in his hand, “Julien?”

“Oh, my God, what happened?” she choked, and her eyes grew wild.

“May I come in?”

One of Remy’s worst nightmares was unfolding before his eyes. He froze in the doorway of the hall as the trooper entered their modest living room. Belladonna cleared some of Rene’s toys from the couch as she sat down. Her knees felt weak, and the officer’s appearance in her home felt surreal and unwelcome.

“And you are?”

“Remy,” he muttered.

“Okay…are you the brother-in-law?”

“Yeah.” Remy’s voice was hoarse and whisper-soft, but the ones in his head were screaming at him in cold panic.

“I’m asking because Julien is in custody. He said the two of you live with him here, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Belladonna said, still disbelieving. Tears shone in her eyes, and Remy really did want to go to her, to comfort her, but her back was up, and her posture was stiff and unnatural. She toyed with the hem of her long sweater. Remy foolishly admitted that she’d taken pains with her appearance when she thought she was going out.

It was moot, now. They weren’t going anywhere.

He felt wave after wave of tension and anguish radiating from her, a sense of betrayal and disappointment, and the death of hope, most disturbing of all. Julien was her older brother. On some level, Bella had hoped he would fly straight and follow a straighter path. She’d worshipped him as a little girl, even when he’d teased her. They were close in age, and like all siblings, they were each all the other would have left as they reached their later years when spouses or children left and parents passed from this world. 

Julien was supposed to take care of her, as he always had. He was supposed to close her window at night to keep out the Boogey Man, since he had a special fondness for gobbling up little blonde girls. He was supposed to stake out her locker and mock her ruthlessly every time a boy approached looking for a phone number, making her less appealing to anyone who would compromise her virtue. And everyone was that “anyone.”

She wasn’t supposed to be the older sister, a role he’d forced her to play over time.

She couldn’t turn a blind eye or remain blissful in her ignorance. The evidence was tucked gently in the trooper’s hand.

“I have a search warrant here. Your brother Julien cooperated with us when we asked him to sign it. If he hadn’t, we would have had to take a more aggressive approach when we came here. We need to search your apartment for illegal substances.”

“Why, sir?” Remy asked. His stomach twisted, bringing him dangerously close to releasing his bowels. The officer was clean-cut and forcing his stern-featured face into civil lines, but his eyes were hard. Remy felt his lack of sympathy and his suspicion, knowing the man had to do his job. And that he did it well.

“Your brother in law admitted to driving your vehicle. I have the registration number and plates listed here.” He handed Remy a pink copy of the citation, and he read the carbon copy scrawl of his car’s ID at the bottom. The paper seemed to grow hot in his hands. They were shaking.

“We stopped him when he was doing eighty miles per hour when the speed limit was fifty-five. We were already concerned that he was driving that fast. But when we signaled to him to pull over, he complied, but we noticed that he appeared to be reaching into the back of the car to conceal something. We immediately asked him to step out of the car. He was initially reluctant.”

Remy had no doubt of that in his mind. He fumed, cursing Julien.

“We found a bag of marijuana and arrested him on charges of possession with intent to sell. There was a generous amount of it there.” Bella’s face crumpled, and she smothered a sob behind her hands.

“So what now?”

“We search your home. I’ll be in and out with my flashlight. I want you two to wait out here. Go on about what you were doing before I got here, if you like, but let me search uninterrupted.” He asked as an afterthought, “Is anyone else here?”

“Jus’ de baby,” Belladonna said.

“Is he sleeping?”

“Oui.”

“Could you go ahead and pick him up, then? I hate to bother the little guy’s sleep, but I need to search his room, too.”

Remy’s heart fell at the very thought of drugs in his child’s nursery, a sacred place where he was supposed to remain safe, loved and untouched by the evils of the world. What made it worse was that Julien adored his nephew, and the feeling was mutual. He doted on him and spoiled him with attention.

That made this so much worse.

Belladonna silently went into Rene’s room and collected him from his crib. The baby’s neck felt sweaty against her cheek and his small body was still pleasantly warm wrapped his footed, blanket sleeper. She breathed in his sweet scent, Johnson’s soothing baby bath conbined with cornstarch powder. Remy itched to take him from her, but she had a desperate look in her eye, almost feverish.

The trooper perused the apartment, keeping the lights in each bedroom turned off as he went through it with his flashlight. Remy and Belladonna sat and watched the recap of a Nicks game, completely uninterested in it while he worked. She rocked and patted Rene’s back needlessly, as he was still sound asleep.

His son’s face was precious, still baby-plump with his soft pink mouth gapping open a bit as he gently snored. Cold fear washed over Remy.

The officer could find drugs in their home.

And they could send someone over to take Rene.

Belladonna cried silently, and her eye makeup ran down her cheeks in thick rivers, looking stark as blood against her pale, creamy skin. 

The trooper finished his search, then asked permission to search Belladonna’s car, their spare. He found nothing, for which she was grateful, but Remy still felt a keen sense of betrayal.

Family dragged them all into this. He wanted to throw something.

*

 

_Now_ :

Logan sat back on his haunches and wiped his brow on his sleeve. He removed the conical particulate mask to allow some cool air to hit his dusty face. Even though he loved swinging a sledgehammer, he never knew what crap he was breathing in whenever they demo’d an older piece of property.

Scott entered the gutted living room with two bottles of Gatorade Ice, handing him one. Logan uncapped it and gulped it down noisily, groaning in relief.

“Tongue was stuck ta the roof of my mouth,” he muttered.

“I’m whipped,” Scott agreed,” but it’s looking good.”

“I might wanna pack it in before six.”

“That’s fine. We’re good for it. We’re a little ahead already.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Logan reminded him. He rose, stretching stiff muscles and rotating a slightly sore shoulder. “That’s tight,” he complained. Scott smirked.

“Too much for ya, old man?”

“That’s enough outta you.”

But he admitted to himself that a long shower sounded good, perhaps too good. It was growing harder lately to get up in the morning.

Logan didn’t want to even consider that it had anything to do with his sleepless nights.

As though he read his mind, Scott asked him “You look kinda out of it. You okay?”

“Eh.”

“You just seem worn out. More drawn.”

“I’m fine,” Logan grumbled, removing his baseball cap and scrabbling his fingers through his hair. He gulped down some more sports drink and leaned back against one of the only intact walls.

“Heard from Colleen lately?”

“Nah.”

“Maybe you could give her a call. Go do something.”

“We weren’t each other’s cup of tea,” Logan reminded him.

“She could be,” Scott cajoled.

“Summers…uh-uh. ‘Nuff.”

Scott sighed, then threw up his hands. “C’mon, man. How long is it gonna be til you settle down?”

“Why do ya married guys always get up on yer friggin’ high horse with that shit?”

“Misery loves company, asshole.” Logan snorted. “Nah. Seriously. We’ve gotta find you a woman.”

Logan prepared to ignore him, heading for his lunch pack in the other room.

“You’re not getting any younger,” Scott continued. “And one of these days, you might wake up in the morning and get sick of the other side of the bed being empty.”

“Ain’t got anything ta do with settlin’ down, bub. Anyone can wake up next ta me in bed.”

“I mean without telling them ‘I’ll call you’ or waiting for the novelty to wear off.”

“Didn’t think the novelty ever wore off of sex, Summers.” Scott walked up and smacked him upside the back of his head. “Hey, easy!”

“C’mon, let me fix you up with another one of Lee’s friends.”

“Get outta here with that shit. Look…ya mean well, I got that. But lay off. I just need a break.”

“It’s been a long time since Silver left you.”

But not that long since I left Walt. Yer omittin’ a few things again, bub.

“Things ain’t all that bad right now, Slim. I’ve got a decent life. I like what I do and where I’m at fer now. I can come and go as I please, and I don’t have ta account ta anyone else but me. Yer lookin’ at a guy who can leave the toilet seat up any time he wants.”

“A regular king of his castle.”

“Damn straight.”

“What about kids? Any plans to duplicate yourself?”

“Because that’s what the world needs so badly.”

“What the heck, why not?” Then Scott looked smug. “Your rug rats can keep mine company and raise a little hell together.”

“That’s scary.”

“Don’t be such a chicken.”

“Maybe kids are fine fer you, bub, but I ain’t necessarily daddy material.”

“How about godfather material, then?” Suddenly Scott’s smile broadened.

“Ya smug sonofabitch! Lee’s expecting?”

“We’re having a little Summers,” he replied.

“That’s great. Congrats, Slim. Lee’ll make a great mom.” Logan clapped him on the back. “Impending daddyhood looks good on ya.”

“Thanks.” They sat down and opened up their lunches, unwrapping sandwiches and munching chips. “So it’s a no-go on meeting Lee’s friend, then?”

“Maybe not now,” Logan offered, even though the real answer was a definite no.

 

Logan left the job site just as the sun began to set. The conversation with Scott made itself a nuisance, niggling and poking at him as he entered his apartment.

Rene was a great kid. The best. That left the fact that to care for Remy, Logan had to care just as much for his son and realize that to Remy, Rene would always come first. That was a big step to take. The worst part was having to look deep inside himself, and to decide if he was unselfish enough to not only accept it, but to grab onto it and hold on with both hands.

Seeing Rene was bittersweet. For that brief moment when the boy called out to him, smiling so radiantly and running to him, Logan felt a warmth infuse him, growing in his chest and trickling into his veins. This was someone who wasn’t playing games with his emotions, his affection was genuine and it touched him. Children didn’t lie. Rene possessed his father’s brightest, best traits and was even more than the sum of his parts, he decided, after meeting Belladonna.

So that left the question: Did Remy lie?

There was so much risk. Logan didn’t know if he already got off at the right stop, before it took him too far or he ended up lost.

If he stayed with Remy, whatever other secrets he had could burn him. And if he formed a genuine relationship with him, then he also became a regular fixture in Rene’s life, too, and by that same token, risked disappointing him if he had to leave.

He pondered that while the hot, hard spray pounded his back in the shower.

Remy didn’t come right out and say that wasn’t pot in his car. So in that regard, he didn’t lie. But in the meantime, what on earth could he be hiding about it? I smoked it, but I didn’t inhale? Logan’s sigh was rusty and annoyed.

Why, Remy?

On some level, he knew he had a past, some dark spots on his soul that still burned. He saw that remembered pain in Remy’s eyes beneath the laughter and flirting. Something deep had to have left it there.

Logan dried off and dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms and no shirt. He made his way out to his favorite chair and punched the remote, losing himself in ESPN.

Rene has said it was his birthday soon.

Logan couldn’t remember the first, or even the last time he’d gone to a kiddie party for any of his friends that had children. He was almost grateful; nothing made a man feel more out of place than a room full of moms trading recipes and talking about scrapbooking while the kids wreaked havoc. 

Despite his decision, Logan wondered briefly what kind of gift a guy got for an eight year old kid.

 

*

Remy stared at his cell phone for the third time in the past half hour, then tucked it back into his coveralls again.

No. He wouldn’t call him.

Anything he could have said to fix things should have been said right away. Remy kicked himself, but again, knew this was probably for the best.

If he explained that it was Julien who was doing drugs in his car, he would have to explain who he was, and what kind of involvement he had in his past. And he’d be wandering into dangerous territory.

Telling Logan now, once the incident had the chance to grow cold, would make Logan think he needed time to form excuses or spin him a yarn.

And he didn’t need that. What they two of them had was fun, but it was young, still in its infancy and easily put to rest. They weren’t obligated to each other yet. They didn’t have to account to each other or be the other’s keeper.

But why did it hurt?

He knew they’d likely go their separate ways, so why was it so difficult?

Remy knew their one-night stand could have remained merely that, that it could have lasted only one night. He hated waking up to empty sheets again, dismayed to find that it wasn’t just because of the lack of sex. Certainly it was important…

He’d grown used to him. Logan felt so good, so right snuggled against his back or with his chest rising and falling beneath Remy’s cheek. He loved the sound of his deep, raspy voice first thing in the morning or last thing at night. He was easy to be with, and to the extent that he allowed Logan to dig a little deeper, Remy felt like he could be himself around him.

Somewhat.

Remy went back to work on the body of an old blue Chevy, working out a dent in the driver-side door. It felt good to pound on something, and he could barely hear his radio over the racket he was making.

Philippe wandered into the garage and stood by with a drink. “Dat’s what I like ta hear.”

“Lookin’ good,” Remy agreed, wiping his brow. He took a long gulp of the drink his uncle handed him and rotated his shoulder to relieve a knot.

“Sounded like ya were kickin’ someone’s ass in here a lil’ while ago. Got somet’in’ on yer mind?”

“Eh.”

“Dat sounds noncommittal.”

“Dat’s ‘cuz it is.”

“What time’s de party?”

“T’ree.”

“Got ‘im an R/C truck,” his uncle bragged, looking pleased with himself.

“Sounds good.”

“T’ink he’s gonna like it. Bought ‘im a shirt, too, in case Bella gets mad dat ev’ryone got ‘im toys instead of clothes.”

“Dat’s fine.”

“How is Bella doin’?” he inquired.

“Bout de same.”

“What ‘bout Julien?”

Remy stiffened.

“What’s he doin’?” Philippe’s dark brows drew together. “He back ta his old ways?”

“Ain’t sure.” Remy didn’t like lying to his uncle.

“What’s dat s’posed ta mean?”

“He ain’t always at de house when I head over dere.”

“Dat don’ answer my question.” His uncle sighed and sat on the bench by the door. “I don’ like ‘im bein’ back in de picture, Remy. Ya know dat.”

“Bella knows better,” Remy agreed. “Took forever t’get ‘im outta our lives, den she lets him back in. He’s family.”

“So’s Rene. Her fils is mo’ important den her frere, non?”

“Oui.” Remy sighed. “Dat ain’t stopped her before from givin’ him more chances den he deserves.”

“Yer his pere,” Philippe reminded him. “It ain’ up ta Bella t’be de only one in control.”

“I know, but-“

“Non, yer actin’ like ya don’ know. Step up. Get back in dere an’ take Rene from dat house if she ain’ gonna see ‘bout his safety.”

“Bella ain’t a bad mot’er.” He wanted to even say She wasn’t even the worse wife. But there was too much bitterness between them, and Remy wasn’t in the mood to defend her to his uncle.

“She loses credit if she’s gonna keep Rene in de comp’ny of a drug dealer an’ a t’ief.”

Remy’s lips tightened. Philippe clapped him on the shoulder.

“Lemme know if ya need any help, Remy. Love ya. Remember dat. Dat’s what family’s for.” His uncle walked back into the shop. Remy leaned over the hood of the car and closed his eyes, deep in thought.

His cell phone startled him. He scrambled to get it out of his pocket and punched the green call button on the second ring.

“Allo?”

“Rem?”

Remy blinked in surprise. “Logan.”

“Ya busy? I catch ya at a bad time?”

“Non. M’busy, oui, but it ain’t a bad time.”

“I could call ya back.” Logan’s tone made Remy doubt that.

“Listen, I’ve got a minute. Jus’ bein’ honest, mec, I wuz kinda hopin’ ya’d call.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Dere wuz actually two t’ings Remy wanted t’discuss. One’s de night at the theater.”

“Yeah.” Logan sounded wary, but Remy was relieved to be talking to him, just the same. “That’s been on my mind since.”

“Guess it didn’t look good when I didn’ give ya any better an impression den de one ya got.”

“What kind of impression was I supposed ta get, smellin’ weed in yer car?”

“Remy don’t smoke weed.”

“Okay.” Logan’s voice still held a hint of disbelief.

“Like I said, Bella borrowed my car. She brought it back washed and put dat vanilla freshener t’ing in Remy’s dash.”

Logan made a noise in this throat. “Hn.”

“Dat’s what happened. Maybe it sounds like a likely story t’you, mec, but Remy wouldn’ lie t’you.”

Logan sighed. He scratched his nape and searched himself for the proper reaction.

“Ya’ve gotta know how this looks t’me, Remy.”

“Remy knows.”

“Does Bella smoke that shit?”

“No,” Remy snapped, frustrated. But then he realized, of course Logan would ask that.

“Doesn’t leave me with a whole lotta answers, kid.”

“Depends on de kind of answers ya want, homme.”

Logan’s grip tightened on his phone.

“I b’lieve Bella mighta let her frere use my car.”

“He in the habit of gettin’ high? He uses?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow.”

Remy heard the note of disgust in Logan’s voice and recoiled. This was what he was afraid of. But Logan’s next words calmed him.

“Sometimes folks’ relatives aren’t a good indicator of who they are, y’know? Even though the apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree.”

“Or de nut, in Julien’s case,” Remy muttered. “M’sorry. Remy don’ like drama. Didn’ wanna bring dis ta yer doorstep.”

“Ya didn’t. Not yet. But I was confused. I just…up until that happened, I had a really good impression of ya, Rem.”

“Wuzn’t planning on changin’ dat any time soon. Guess appearances are hard ta keep up.” Logan exhaled through his nose audibly and scratched his chin.

“Then don’t try ta ‘keep up appearances’ with me. If ya feel like there’s anything ta hide from me, Rem, then I don’t wanna put ya through the work.”

“Dat ain’t it, chere!” Remy snapped. “It ain’t dat I wanna hide anyt’in’ from ya…dere’s just old dirty laundry dat I don’ wanna hang out fo’ de world t’see. Everyone’s got a skeleton or two in de closet, non?”

“Got a whole graveyard full of ‘em in mine,” Logan admitted, resigned. “But I feel pretty strongly about people usin’, Rem. It’s a dealbreaker with me.”

Remy’s thoughts raced. How much more would Logan resent him if he knew that his brother in law had been dealing drugs, then, out of his house for so long?

There was a long lull over the phone as they digested each other’s words.

“It wuzn’t mine. Dat’s all ya need t’know, fer now.” Logan didn’t like the “for now.”

“Alright.” 

“Maybe ya t’ink dat’s a good place ta leave off, but Remy had one udder t’ing on his mind.”

“Shoot.”

“Rene’s birthday.” He was surprised to hear Logan’s low chuckle.

“Heh. Yeah. It’s funny, I was gonna talk to ya about that. I ran into the crumb snatcher. Kid was all excited.”

“Was he wit Bella?”

“Yup.” He didn’t mention that she gave him the hairy eyeball when he made the introductions. “Mentioned something about Chuck E Cheese.”

“His favorite. It’s Remy’s idea of de Ninth Circle of Hell, but if it makes him happy, den we visit Chucky.”

“Been a while since I played a round of skeeball,” Logan mentioned casually.

“Betcha can’t beat Remy.”

“Betcha I can.”

“Prove it.”

“I will, once ya tell me what Rene likes.”

“T’ink ya already had a pretty good idea wit’ dose movies ya rented, homme.”

“Then I’ll stay in that same vein.”

*

If there was a hell, Logan was certain it would require tickets and involve puppets murdering popular songs. He already felt a headache building up over the bridge of his nose, partly due to the stench of slightly burnt pizza and the low roar of so many electronic games whirring and buzzing around him. The playplace was already crowded and swarming with kids of all ages. Logan tried to be careful where he stepped, not wanting to accidentally tread upon small stocking feet running by when he walked past the large tunnel jungle gym.

But they were definitely having a blast. There was something amusing about seeing toddler-aged kids getting such a thrill out of a one-minute rock on a bus, the easiest entertainment a quarter could buy. Once they got older, things grew so much more complicated and expensive. Two little girls of about two and four years practically knocked him over as they attacked the Crazy Car.

“Vicious,” he muttered. “Sheesh.”

He peered around the room for anything looking like a birthday party and saw balloons in the next suite, where tables were set up to eat.

Logan headed over there and began to several boys roughly Rene’s age, the only kids on the birthday side of the room too cool for party hats. He watched them dart off with cups full of tokens while their mothers sat and chatted protectively around the cake.

“M’SIEU LOGAN!”

Logan found himself attacked from behind before he could even turn around. Rene’s skinny arms glomped him around the waist to the extent that he could reach. Logan felt like he’d just endured the Heimlich maneuver.

“OOF!”

“You came to my party!”

“Sure did, big guy. Good grief, yer strong!”

“I’m eight!” he boasted, grinning. He was such a cute kid, Logan mused.

“Eight year olds get underwear for their birthday,” Logan told him solemnly.

“No they don’t!” he argued.

“You sure?”

“We get toys and video games,” he corrected him.

“No underwear? No socks? No school books?” Logan inquired. Rene made a sour face.

“Uh-uh.”

“Huh…good thing this ain’t underwear, then, or I woulda gotten it all wrong, bub.” Logan handed him an awkwardly wrapped birthday present in Batman paper. 

“YAY!”

“RENE!” a feminine voice called out. Logan turned to find Belladonna coming toward them from the jungle gym.

“M’sieu Logan came, Maman!”

“I see dat, petit.” Belladonna eyed him warily. “Did Remy give ya de details?”

“Yup.”

“How d’ya know ‘im again?”

“Acquaintances. Downtown. We both like cars,” he reminded her.

Belladonna turned to Rene. “Sweetie, tell ‘im t’ank you and put de gift on de table.”

“Thank you, Logan!”

“Yer welcome, kiddo.” Logan gave him a fond smile. Belladonna gave Logan an odd look that put his back up once Rene ran off.

“I guess I didn’ make maself clear,” she admitted. “I wanna know what ya are ta Remy. Especially when ya say yer an ‘acquaintance.’”

“I ain’t sure why that’s important.”

“Because Rene talked about ya a lot when we got home this week. Seems ta be pretty attached.”

“He’s a nice boy. Remy brought me with them to the car show. It was nice of him not to mind me spending that time with his dad.”

Logan knew he said too much.

“Ah.”

“Remy made the invitation.”

“Dat’s fine. Jus’ a boy’s day out, non?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did Rene spend de night wit’ de two of ya dat day?”

Logan’s cheeks flamed and his stomach turned leaden.

“That’s a personal question. And no, I didn’t go ta Remy’s that night. He was taking care of Rene. I decided we could meet up some other time.”

“I see.”

“I hope so.”

“Lemme tell ya somet’in,” Belladonna murmured, tugging Logan aside by his jacket sleeve. She leaned over a small table and pointed her finger toward his chest. “I ain’t fond of Remy’s ways towards men. Our marriage fell apart because of it, make no mistake. “

“It’s not my business why things didn’t work out between you,” Logan argued. “And I’m not in this to make trouble.”

“Den what are ya in it for?”

“That’s none of yer business,” Logan told her calmly.

Belladonna narrowed her eyes. “Are the two of ya fuckin’?”

Logan’s brows beetled. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Blunt, are we?”

“Ya won’t be when my son is wit’ his pere. I don’t want him bein’ exposed tad at. Ya wanna live dat lifestyle, it’s yer own affair. Jus’ leave my son out of it.”

“Lifestyle? Look, Bell, ya’ve got the wrong idea. Rem and I are friends…good friends. We haven’t made much of a decision one way or another how long this is gonna go on, or even where it’s gonna go. But it ain’t yer affair. And Rene spendin’ time around me is up ta his pop, not me. And as for my own lifestyle, darlin’, I’m clean, drug-free, relatively vanilla when it comes ta my personal life, and I ain’t a criminal. I make an honest living and I’ve never mistreated a child. My relationship with Remy, whether or not it ends up bein’ that way, doesn’t make me a deviant or a pervert. It just means when I have feelings for someone special, that someone could be a man or a woman. And there’s nothin’ wrong with feelin’ the way I feel.”

She looked like she drank sour milk. “Great. Dat’s great. Yer like Remy, huh? Like t’play games wit’ women, den get yer kicks wit’ men?”

Remy walked into the parlor and saw Logan from the back, posture stiff. Belladonna’s face told him all he needed to know from where he stood. Remy frowned, suddenly loaded for bear.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Hey,” Logan greeted him, but he looked unhappy. Remy laid his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. He felt his broad muscle relax slightly.

“Yer friend here wuz jus’ tellin’ me a lil’ ‘bout de nature of yer friendship, and how the t’ree of you been spendin’ a lotta time together, all of a sudden.”

“And?” Remy challenged.

“Maybe that ain’t what I had in mind fo’ de comp’ny Rene keeps.”

“Maybe dat ain’t up t’you!” Remy flared, disgusted. “C’mon, Bella, don’ be dat way. Rene understands dat his papa-“

“How d’you know he understands, Remy?” she argued. “Dis come up in plain conversation?”

“We’ve talked about his papa spendin’ time wit’ his friends, and dat it ain’t much different from when Tony comes t’see him at your house, Bella.”

“It ain’t, huh? News flash: It IS different. I ain’t gay. He’ll never have ta worry about dat when his friends come over to my home.”

“And ya t’ink he’s gotta worry so much ‘bout dat wit’ me?”

“Look,” Logan sighed, “this ain’t the time or the place. Remy, I appreciate ya havin’ me here at yer son’s shindig, but maybe this ain’t a discussion ya oughta be havin’ with me around.” Remy’s eyes clouded with worry.

“Don’ go,” he murmured. Logan clapped him on the back, wishing he could wrap an arm around him comfortingly.

“Don’ let us stop ya if ya have other places ta be,” Bella countered, shrugging and smiling brightly. It was the first smile she’d give him since Logan arrived. 

It was full of venom.

Elsewhere, Rene shot hoops, growing more exasperated with the moving basket, sinking only three.

He felt a tap on his left shoulder, then looked surprised only to find empty air.

“BOO!” Julien crowed from over his right side.

“ONCLE JULIEN! You came!” he exclaimed. He gave his uncle a hug, but drew back, slightly confused.

“T’ought ya wanted ta stay home an’ take a nap,” he pointed out.

He was accustomed to his uncle’s day time sleep habit, and was growing more used to the stinky cigarettes he smoked in his room. Rene missed his bedroom.

“Non. Wanted t’see mon neveu an’ have some birthday cake,” Julien told him. “An’ ya know what?”

“What?”

“Gotcha a present.”

“Where is it?”

“In de car,” Julien said.

“Are you gonna bring it in? I wanna see it.” Rene’s expression was petulant, reminding Julien of Belladonna when she was that age. He chuckled.

“Whynt’cha c’mon out an’ see it?”

“I can’t wait!”

*

Logan was frustrated, and Remy looked upset.

“Don’ take out yer hate fo’ Remy on my friend.”

“Den why don’tcha decide which is more important, yer friend, or yer son?”

Logan scanned the room, hoping Rene wasn’t in earshot of the conversation.

“Rem?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is he?”

“What?” Belladonna’s eyes widened, and she whipped around, searching the play place.

She saw birthday hats and brightly colored jerseys running around, and long strings of tickets and token cups. Skeeball machine lights flashed at her.

Rene was nowhere to be found.


	14. Cold Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy realizes he hasn’t escaped Julien’s web. And where is Rene?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to move this forward a bit now, past the characters’ history, but it’s hard, the plot is hard to pin down, and I keep changing my mind about certain details regarding Julien.

The crowd of children and mothers seemed to close in on them, feeling oppressive as they searched frantically for Rene. Any sight of him, his sandy hair, his jersey, anything.

Their argument dissolved, forgotten.

“Where is he? Remy, where is he!” Belladonna demanded, blue eyes wild. Her fingers dug into his upper arm with surprising strength.

“Leggo, settle down, damn it, lemme t’ink!” Remy barked, brushing her hands away. He began to lurch through the crowd, buffeted by kids swarming past him. He headed to the food counter and signaled to a harried looking teen behind the register.

“’Scuse me, have ya seen a boy, bout eight, light brown hair, he wuz wearin’-“ She cut him off mid-sentence, looking confused.

“Do you want to talk to the manager?”

“Yeah, damn it, tell him it’s important!” He felt Logan and Belladonna close in on him, flanking his back. The girl ran off, looking concerned about leaving them alone by her register, but she returned a few moments later with a middle-aged man in a white button-down shirt and red nametag. He scratched a shaving scab on his stubbled chin and eyed the three of them warily.

“What can I do for you?”

“Our son got away from us,” Remy informed him. “We need help, maybe ya could page ‘im, or somet’in’.”

“We don’t usually do that, unless a child comes up and says they’re lost-“

“Are ya shittin’ us?” Logan flared. His fist crashed down on the Formica counter, making the girl jump back, and his eyes were dark, fathomless slits. The manager looked ready to piss his pants. “It’s the same damn thing! Except we can tell ya more pertinent details about him, because we’re friggin’ adults! This ain’t rocket science, bub!”

“Look,” Remy interjected, frustrated and holding Logan’s shoulder in a firm, restraining grip, “gimme a chance ta describe him, and den ya can try t’page him, non?”

“Fine,” the man sighed, completely impatient. He took out a worn scribble pad and a pencil.

“He’s eight. It was his birthday, we’re set up at the big table in back,” Bella interrupted. “His name’s Rene LeBeau.”

“Rene? Didn’t know that was even a boy’s name,” the manager remarked under his breath, but he made notes.

“He’s ‘bout dis tall,” Remy said, motioning about halfway up his chest.

“So, what, ‘bout four-eight, four-ten?”

“Oui,” Bella agreed, nodding vigorously. Her eyes were still shining, threatening her carefully applied mascara. “He has freckles. I dressed ‘im in a red jersey with Superman on it.”

“Superman?”

“The big ‘S’ on it, not the character itself,” Logan pointed out. The manager shrugged, making an ‘S’ on his scribbler with a triangle around it.

It was on the tips of all their tongues to describe more about him, superfluous details only parents could appreciate, such as his chicken pock scar on his belly or his love of pizza, or the bashful way he ducked his head when meeting someone new. But they kept it brief and relevant.

“Have you checked the rest rooms?” the manager asked.

“I’ll do it,” Logan offered, hurrying away. The manager looked irritated.

“Check the parking lot, too,” he suggested. The cashier looked worried, biting her lip. 

“I hope you find him. Poor little guy,” she offered soothingly. Bella tried to offer her a smile, but her lips quivered before she turned away.

*

 

“Where are we going?”

“Jus’ makin’ a lil’ trip ta de store, petit,” Julien said easily, glancing over at his nephew. Rene’s lips were red from a popsicle he was diligently lapping at in the passenger seat. The drippings weren’t horribly visible on his black jeans, thankfully; Julien’s sister had the foresight not to dress him in light colors on a day where he’s likely spill food on himself. Rene shrugged and went back to his sweet.

The new wrestling action figure was lying between them on the seat atop a pile of torn wrapping. Rene had been delighted at the time, but now the initial novelty of his uncle’s arrival was waning as he realized something.

“Can we call Maman?” Rene asked, looking worried.

“Don’ worry,” Julien assured him. “We ain’ gonna be gone long.” Julien’s eyes were slightly bloodshot behind his glasses, and he was slowly coming down from his high. He waited impatiently at the stoplight, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. They trembled slightly as he reached for his burning Camel. He hungrily sucked a draft of pungent tobacco into his lungs. He was distracted by Rene’s voice, humming the theme song to some kid’s show that he didn’t recognize. The car behind him blared his horn for him to go when it was his turn. Rage and embarrassment made his cheeks flame, and he reached back over the top of the seat, turning to flip the other driver off. He leaned on his own horn for good measure, cursing in French.

“Maman doesn’t like that word,” Rene reminded him, eyes wide. His popsicle dripped forgotten in his hand. His uncle was acting strangely, and it made him uncomfortable.

“Desole, chere. My bad,” Julien quipped, smiling and not looking the least contrite. Rene giggled. He passed his nephew a handful of beat-up fast food napkins from the console. Reme daubed futilely at his pants leg and wiped his mouth.

“Why didn’t we tell Maman where we’re going?”

“Aw, she knows I ain’t gonna kidnap ya,” Julien pointed out, but it suddenly niggled at him. His sister was going to be pissed.

He hadn’t given it any thought. It wouldn’t be the first time.

His resolve to go to the party faltered when he entered the play area. The noises were too sharp, the lights too bright and distracting, overstimulating him and ruining the mellow high left by the pot. Had it been any other setting, he would have been content to watch some of the whirling, blinking lights, getting lost in their patterns and rhythms, but not here. Not with a couple hundred mothers and children closing in on him.

His nephew was growing up so fast, defying Julien’s mental image of Rene when he was just a plump baby playing with his car keys. He wondered when he’d grown up so quickly, where he’d been that he hadn’t noticed. Then he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. 

Julien could have been accused of dreaming too big, once upon a time. He’d never have guessed he’d be sleeping in a cramped twin bed with superhero static cling decorations on the walls at his sister’s unwilling hospitality. He’d been a high roller. He could be again, if he only laid low.

He met his client now, not the other way around. Bella warned him about his “guests” coming and going for their frequent, short visits. She forbade Rene to stay in the living room whenever they appeared, and she felt ashamed at the fact that he wasn’t completely secure in his own home.

Julien brushed it off. All he needed was time and money. That, and a little wiggle room. His sister just had to be flexible.

Julien pulled into the lot of a liquor store and got out. Rene was about to follow him.

“Non. Stay.”

“Why? It’s hot out here,” Rene complained. Julien shrugged.

“Fine, den, but don’ touch anyt’in’, ya got it?”

“Okay.” Julien felt uneasy about taking him inside that kind of store; it made him more conspicuous. Rene followed him quietly and entertained himself by looking at a magazine rack while Julien gave the shop a once-over. He headed to the refrigerator shelves along the side wall and reached for a forty-ounce Mickey’s. He peeked back over his shoulder and caught Rene staring after him. Rene gave him an impish smile. Julien smirked back; the kid was cute.

“Jus’ stay dere,” he mouthed at him before he headed to the back of the store.

He didn’t spare the security camera a glance as he exited through the swinging double doors with his beer, even though the sign clearly said not to bring merchandise in that direction without paying first.

The back store room was dark and musty smelling. Julien headed for a tiny office just to the right of the unisex rest room. He ignored the bulletin board full of old coupons, want ads and job listings and studded with broken thumb tacks. The door was ajar, and he heard a familiar, raspy voice talking on the phone when he pushed his way in.

Julien watched the intimidatingly tall blond behind the desk lean back and take a drag of his cigarette, tapping the ashes into an empty beer can. His long legs filled out a pair of battered, faded jeans, and he had no qualms about resting his booted feet on the blotter, crossed at the ankles. He winked at Julien as he sat down across from him, opening the Mickey’s and taking a thirsty swallow.

Julien caught sight of Rene in the security camera monitor suspended from the ceiling in the upper right corner of the office. He was still occupied with the postcards and magazines, and he found a small collectible car that he was pretending to race across the counter. The clerk behind it tolerated it, occasionally looking up to tell the boy something Julien couldn’t hear.

Julien’s “babysitting” was interrupted by the low beep of the phone being returned to the charger. “Love that shit. I just love that shit.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Asshole. Mac said he didn’t have it again. Only wanted ta give me half and make me wait til Tuesday for the rest.”

“Dat’s some bullshit.”

“I know,” the blond shrugged. “I ain’t Fort Knox. Man like me’s gotta hustle ta make it, y’know?”

“T’ought ya found a sugah daddy, non?”

“Fuck you,” he muttered back, but he smirked as he stubbed out his cigarette and automatically lit another one. His pearl-handled Zippo seemed to fit Creed, sort of old school and something you could rely on to do the job.

That was Vic’s only virtue. No one so much as sneezed at the fact that one of the neighborhood’s highest, hardest rollers was nailing a doctor from upstate. Behind closed doors, he was living a soft, cushy life with unlimited retail therapy, and a man who would do anything for him, be anyone for him.

The novelty Walt presented hadn’t worn off yet. The sounds of his low grunts and curses from beneath him when he took him that morning still lingered in Vic’s ears. He craved it, the poor sonofabitch, someone who would do the thinking for him, take control of his needs, even dictate what he needed in the first place. All Vic had to do was keep convincing him that he was freeing Walter from his burdens, all while holding him more firmly under his thumb.

He didn’t even care – much – when he went off on one of his kicks, talking about his ex. Victor felt like he knew him on sight when they ran into the runt at the cinema that night. What were the odds? Vic knew the type; he read him as hot-blooded, the so-called “strong, silent type” who was only too happy to let you go that one step too far with him, just to watch your look of shock when you woke up on your back, feeling like you got hit by a truck. Small man complex. It was some funny shit.

So he let Walt whine about him over steak and Caesar salads and distracted him with rough sex while he drained his bank balance. It was an easy hustle. He hoped Walt didn’t ruin it for him. He’d almost started caring about the poor, nice bastard.

Almost.

He nodded to Julien’s bottle, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke. “Think that’s on the house?”

“Non.” Julien reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. Vic watched with interest as he opened the billfold. He laid a small plastic packet on Vic’s blotter. “T’ink dis should cover it.”

“Dunno if yer money’s any good here,” Vic suggested as he reached for it. He opened the seal and stuck his pinky inside, licking off the white residue. He sucked his teeth thoughtfully, then nodded. “Nice.” He eyed Julien, sneering. “Looks like ya sampled some on the way here. Ya know that ain’t how I roll. Ya work fer me, ya work clean, man.”

“I get de job done, dat’s all dat matters. Know I wouldn’ short you, mec. An’ dat ain’ my favorite poison.”

“Thought I smelled somethin’ green,” Vic muttered. He shook his head. “What the fuck’s wrong with ya?”

“C’mon,” Julien griped. “Know’m always good fo’ it, mec.”

“Better be.” Julien bristled, nervously rubbing his nape. 

He wasn’t as unkempt as he had been on recent visits, at least. His hair didn’t have the lank, greasy shine Vic was growing accustomed to seeing, thankfully, and he took the time to wear a decent pair of denims that didn’t have the ass half-frayed out of them. He even wore a short-sleeve button down shirt, a change from his customary ribbed wifebeaters or logo tees. He almost looked respectable, until you gazed deep into this dark eyes.

“So what’s with the small fry?”

“Neh?”

“My man out there.” Vic pointed to the monitor.

“Shit,” Julien muttered. “Lemme get out dere.”

“He yers?”

“Non. Mon neveau.”

“English, asshole.”

“My sister Bella’s lil’ one. Rene.”

“That’s a girl’s name.”

“So’s Vic, ain’ it, mec, when it’s short fo’ Victoria?”

“Fucker.” The corner of his mouth curled like an adult indulging a child’s knock-knock jokes. “Don’t make a point of bringin’ him here fer this shit.”

“Gave him his present. Ain’ spent much time wit’ ‘im lately. Got back from his party.”

“Jesus…what’s wrong with you?” Vic laughed. He watched Rene with only the barest semblance of pity as the boy began to pace the store, looking distressed. “Go.” Julien dutifully set down the Mickey’s, deciding he didn’t feel like drinking it from out of a bag or waiting until it got too warm to finish. Vic sighed.

He toyed with the Zippo, flicking it open and shut, just to watch the flame spark and die. That was how Vic rolled.

*

Julien’s high came crashing down when he approached the register. Rene’s low whimpers reached his ears before he could even call his name.

“Ready t’go, petit- merde!” Rene flung himself upon him, clinging to him, burying his face in his shirt, but not before his nephew turned watery hazel eyes on him. They were frightened and accusing, beseeching him Why did you leave me alone? 

Julien’s hands awkwardly patted his back and stroked his soft hair. “Hey, now…settle down, now, I ain’ gon’ anywhere. C’mon, now, chere…”

“Wan’ Maman,” he sniffled.

Julien felt a cold flush of prickles break out over his skin. His nephew’s fingers were clawing into his lower back; he honestly didn’t want to let go. The clerk glared sourly at him before turning back to his issue of Lowrider.

Belladonna would kill him.

“Rene-“

“I wan’ Maman!” he snuffled pitifully. “Wan’ Papa, too!”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

*

Chuck E Cheese was turning into sheer pandemonium.

Logan and Remy grilled the fourth employee they found on the premises, yet another teenager barely old enough to take care of himself, let alone work as the door attendant to monitor the comings and goings of hundreds of children under twelve.

“He woulda come in with his mom,” Logan said, speaking slowly to stave off his own boiling temper. “He woulda had the same number stamped on his hand.”

“I know, sir,” he agreed, voice cracking. He was scared shitless.

“Ya didn’ see a lil’ boy in a red shirt wit’ Superman on it?”

It was futile. Half the occupants of the play area wore superhero logos, Thomas the Tank Engine or Go, Diego, Go! screenprinted onto their jerseys.

“He was freckled,” Remy insisted. “Dis tall.”

“Short hair, same color as his,” Logan pointed out, gripping Remy’s shoulder. He squeezed it to lend him support.

Inside, Remy was bleeding. It was palpable; this time Logan was the one drowning in his emotions and self-hatred. The cords in Remy’s neck were taut as power cables, and a vein was standing out in his forehead that Logan had never noticed before, and never wanted to see again.

“Was anyone else coming to the party? Another adult in your family?” a female supervisor piped up. Several mothers of Rene’s friends ringed the gathering of staff. Belladonna’s makeup was a lost cause. She wept into a handful of fast food napkins while one of them held her close, rubbing her arm soothingly.

“Non,” Remy insisted.

“Oui!” Belladonna cried, in almost the same breath. “Y-yeah, dere wuz. Mon frere…”

“Julien?” Remy shot back. His nostrils flared and every muscle in his body tensed into tight knots.

“Julien?” Logan repeated, surprised. “Ain’t that…?”

“What de fuck? What does Bella mean, Julien?”

“All I did wuz tell him about it,” Bella argued. “Tol’ ‘im he didn’ hafta come if he didn’ wanna. Rene invited him. I left it open.”

Remy’s jaw was working. “Dat sonofabitch gets t’come…and ya gave me hell for bringin’… aw, hell no!” Remy shook his head. His lips twisted into a smile of disbelief while his eyes burned with garnet fire. He shook off Logan’s restraining grip and broke away from the gathering for a moment. He strode outside, banging his way through the double doors.

He’d kill him. Plain and simple. He was a waste of flesh. He’d be doing the world a favor.

Remy paced the sidewalk, tugging his hands through his hair and cursing under his breath. He kicked a small, token-operated kiddie car several times, ignoring the pain. It felt too good to let go, and he was dangerously close to losing it.

“Rem!”

“Fucking motherfucker!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air. He spun on Logan. “Didja hear her, mec? Didja hear what Remy’s ex said?”

“I heard. Rem, don’t do this-“

“She brought ‘im here! Ta my son’s birt’day party, homme! Who de fuck does dat? Huh?” He was still tugging on his hair, and his face was a mixture of helplessness and rage. His breathing was harsh, and Logan could see too much of the whites – if he could consider them that – of his eyes for his own comfort.

“Rem,” Logan interjected. “He might have him.” He had to get through to him. “He might have him! Calm the fuck down! Take a breath! Don’t lose it here! Look where ya are!” His own voice boomed in his bid to be heard. “Look where the fuck ya are! There are kids inside, wondering what the hell just happened. They’re scared. Ya know why? Because someone their age is missin’. They see all the adults walkin’ around looking scared shitless. Listen ta me. Calm. Down.” Remy shook his head, wanting to go another three rounds, but his eyes beseeched Logan, begged him for reassurance.

“Who jus’ runs off wit’…who de fuck does dat?” 

“We’ll get him back,” Logan told him. He caught Remy’s wrists and held them at his sides firmly as he gazed up into his face. Remy’s jaw was working, and he looked close to tears, but his anger was still palpable, tangible.

“Hate dis,” Remy whispered roughly. “Dis ain’ right, chere.” There was the pet name. Logan didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until then, but he was too upset to appreciate it.

“It ain’t.”

“He better be wit’ ‘im. If he ain’t…”

“He could be.”

“If he ain’t-“

“No. Don’t.” It was the unspeakable.

He convinced him to go back inside. The fresh air helped to defuse him just enough to speak to the manager again. A call was placed to the police station as a precaution.

Belladonna was dialing her cell, trying to ring her brother, praying out loud in English and broken French as she, too, paced. The hope in her blue eyes died as the ring tone trilled over, and over, and over in her ears.

“Pick up, Julien,” she whimpered. “Aw, God, pick up, please…” She collapsed at one of the booths, sitting sideways on the bench to give herself enough room to lean over her knees.

Frustration on her behalf niggled at Logan. He released Remy while he continued to speak to the manager and approached her quietly. 

Logan knelt in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge him. She stared into his face brokenly.

“He won’t pick up,” she choked. She held the tiny phone out feebly; Logan listened to the echo of the ring tone beneath the clamor of the play area. Cold dread knotted itself in his gut, mirrored in her blue eyes.

He took her free hand. She didn’t shake him off.

*

He had to stall. He had to get straight.

Julien made shaky progress through traffic, honking impatiently through every stoplight and cutting off pedestrians on right turns. Rene sniffled into the back of his hand as he leaned as far in toward the passenger door as he could, refusing to look at him. A second popsicle sat still wrapped and melting on the front seat, saturating the paper bag the clerk thrust it into at the 7-11. The same bribe wouldn’t work twice.

Julien was up shit creek.

He eventually stopped at a vacant lot and unwrapped the melting sweet. 

“Wan’ Maman,” Rene reminded him. His voice was still petulant.

“Gimme a minute,” Julien hissed. He crammed half the popsicle into his mouth, wincing at the feel of it against his vulnerable teeth. That would help. He hadn’t eaten anything yet; he just needed something to sop up what he drank…

There. Better. Somewhat. 

He eyed himself in the rearview and lied to himself that he’d pass muster.

“Chuck E Cheese,” he muttered. “Gon’ g’wan back ta yer party, petit. Gon’ open up yer presents an’ have some cake, okay?”

Rene was unresponsive except for more ragged sniffles. Tears darkened the soft red knit of his shirt.

It was like reading his own death sentence. Julien dragged his feet through the next two intersections, mind and heart racing. He felt like throwing up.

He pulled into the lot and drove all the way to the back. Rene leaned up from the door and was already unfastening his seat belt.

“Whoa,” Julien chided him.

“Wan’ Papa!” he cried. Julien lunged across the seat to stop him from jerking open the door.

“Non!” he hissed. “Jus’ gimme a sec-“

He wasn’t fast enough. Julien slammed on the brakes just as Rene leapt out. He stumbled with the momentum as his feet hit the asphalt. “MERDE!” Rene caught himself and half-tripped his way to the sidewalk.

Julien’s stomach pitched.

“MAMAN!” 

Belladonna’s head jerked up, and Logan released her hand in surprise.

“RENE!” Remy shouted, watching in stunned disbelief as his son lurched inside the restaurant, eyes wild and damp, searching for him. 

“PAPA!” he wailed, sobbing as he struggled through the crowd of children and concerned looking parents. Remy met him halfway, Belladonna hot on his heels.

He reached him first, and Rene glomped him, bursting into tears. Remy’s own eyes stung, and he couldn’t hold his son’s warm weight against him tightly enough. He trembled, dropping to his knees to allow his son to collapse onto his lap. Remy rocked him, as much to soothe his son as himself.

“Lemme see him,” Belladonna demanded. “Oh, baby…” she crooned, bending down to stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head. His parents wrapped him in a snug cocoon, crouched around him and murmuring that they were there, that he was okay.

Logan recovered first, even though he felt like someone had socked him in the gut. “Rene…kid, how did ya get back here?”

“On…cle…Oncle J-Jul-Julien,” he stammered, sniffling. His breath kept hitching, and his father paused in rocking him to stare down into his tearstained face.

“Oncle?” Remy demanded. “Where?”

“H-he drove m-me, Papa.”

“Go wit’ Maman,” he murmured, kissing his damp cheek.

“Non!” Rene cried. “Don’t let go!”

“Please, petit,” Bella implored. She itched to hold him herself, to reassure herself that he wasn’t just a phantom, that she wasn’t still in hell. She pried him loose from his father and didn’t spare a second glance as he rushed away.

Logan didn’t hesitate. He dogged Remy’s heels as fast as his Ropers would carry him toward the parking lot.

A car that Logan hadn’t spotted earlier in the lot was trying to make a U-turn in the back of the lot.

“MotherFUCKER!” Remy roared. He ran out onto the asphalt, planting himself directly in the car’s path.

“Are ya NUTS!”

“COME OUT!” he shouted at the driver. 

It was like watching one of his worst nightmares. Logan’s heart nearly stopped as the car screeched to a halt, just inches shy of mowing Remy down. Remy didn’t flinch.

His eyes were wild and he was back in his state of hearing no reason, a condition he’d once accused Logan of possessing. Remy belonged to pain and rage, and they didn’t plan to let him go.

He banged mechanic’s fists against the hood, almost hard enough to dent.

“Get de fuck out!” he hissed. “Get out, NOW!”

“What de fuck…?!” The driver rolled down the window, and Logan was surprised to see a man with long, dark hair glaring at his lover with just as much piss and vinegar. 

“Get out,” Remy repeated. “Get de fuck outta de car, asshole! Huh? Dis okay t’you, mec? Huh? Scare my son? Jus’ gonna take ‘im, den drop ‘im wit’out so much as a by-your-leave?”

“Gave ‘im his present. He wanted t’go wit’ me,” Julien insisted just as belligerently. He slapped the steering wheel for emphasis, as though he were getting just as ginned up for a fight.

Remy wasn’t having it. The engine was still running, and Julien looked like he had every intention of driving off. Remy reached for the driver’s side door and jerked it open before Julien could punch the power locks.

They scuffled. Remy couldn’t get enough of a grip on him to pull him out from behind the wheel. Logan rushed forward, having seen enough.

“HEY!”

“C’mon out! Come out, motherfucker!”

“REMY!” Belladonna cried from the double doors. Rene’s arms were still wrapped tightly around her waist.

“Take ‘im back inside, Bella!” Remy shouted. “He don’ need t’see dis!”

“Damn right he don’t!” Logan agreed as he pushed himself between both men with some struggle. He attempted to pry Remy’s hands from Julien’s collar, pushing them away from his throat. His eyes swung toward the gearshift, making sure the car was in park.

Remy pushed Logan away and resumed his struggle with Julien, feinting as Julien tried to punch him. He prized his seat belt buckle open and strong-armed him from the sedan.

“Think ya can take me?” Julien scoffed, but he didn’t have the advantage. 

Remy took in his state, seeing all of the familiar details that made him come to hate his brother in law so much over the years, hating himself for his affair all over again. His eyes were faintly bloodshot, and his movements were jerky and awkward, despite that he had just as much raw strength. But this wasn’t the Julien who had the advantage of surprise and speed.

He smelled like alcohol and weed.

“High,” Remy spat. “Ya took my son out fer a drive when ya were high!”

Logan’s nose told him Remy wasn’t lying. He released Remy.

“Yer fuckin’ kidding,” he snarled.

Remy thrust Julien back against the hood of the car and whaled on him.

“PAPA!”

“Take him inside,” Logan cried. Belladonna complied this time, carrying Rene away on her hip, even though he was almost too heavy for it now.

Julien’s face twisted belligerently. “Leggo! Get de fuck off m-“ BAM! His nose felt like it exploded beneath the impact of Remy’s fist.

“Shit!” Logan hissed. “REMY! Take it easy!” He felt like a sham. Logan knew damned well that Remy was justified in violence, but they were out in the open. Reluctantly he reached for him, tugging on him, but it was like restraining an angry bear. Logan cursed as Julien began to fight back, landing awkward yet still painful blows that hit whomever was closest. Julien’s heavy gold ring scratched Logan’s cheek as he flailed and struck.

The police picked that moment to arrive; all three men froze, jerking apart instantly as the white Crown Vic pulled into the lot. The beacon spun atop the car, eerily similar to the spinning, flashing lights on the games inside the play place.

Logan breathed deeply through his nose, composing himself, rubbing absently at the scratch. Remy’s chest was heaving as he tried to regain control. 

Julien’s face was a bleak mask. He pulled away from the other two men and paced away, turning his back to distance himself from the coming questions.

*

Six hours later:

“How is he?”

“Out like a light. Hope he stays dat way.” This was greeted with a heavy sigh.

“Damn.” The couch sagged beneath Remy as Logan sat on the opposite end. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah.” Remy picked up the remote, then thought better of it, setting it back on the coffee table. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, then tipped his head back onto the couch bolster. He closed his eyes, and the scene from that afternoon played itself out in his head. He couldn’t lock it out.

He was damned lucky they didn’t all end up in jail. The citation’s yellow carbon copy lay on the kitchen table, mocking him. Logan managed to avoid being served when witness accounts pointed to him as trying to break up the disturbance.

Remy was exhausted, and Logan knew it, but he cajoled him to stay for a while to help him get his bearings. Logan agreed, uncomfortable with the haggard look Remy developed since that afternoon and the defeated slump of his shoulders.

Wordlessly he reached over and kneaded his shoulder, alarmed at the tension knotted there. Remy grunted in appreciation at the contact. His eyes slitted open and jerked toward Logan. They beseeched him, asking the questions he couldn’t.

Logan massaged his neck, working out the kinks a bit at a time, and Remy dropped his head forward, letting it loll back and forth in relief. The memory of the night Remy worked on him like this came back to him briefly, but this wasn’t a seduction. They were both too vulnerable, things between them to raw and uncertain, and Logan wouldn’t take advantage of that.

But it was so hard. So tempting, when he wanted to do nothing more than hold him and tell him it would be okay, take all of the bad things away and banish them from his existence so they would never touch him or Rene again.

Rene leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. He stared down at his stocking feet for several moments while Logan continued to rub him down.

When he turned to him, his face was so bleak and full of anguish.

“T’ought I lost him,” he rasped, so low Logan almost didn’t hear him.

“You didn’t.”

“Wuzn’t watchin’ him,” he said.

“None of us were, that’s the fucked up part,” Logan agreed. Remy shook his head.

“It ain’t on you.”

“Why ain’t it? I was there. I was an adult who shoulda been lookin’ out for his welfare and payin’ attention, too.” 

Logan’s hand released his shoulder and slid down the length of Remy’s arm until he reached his hand. He laced his fingers through Remy’s and held it in a strong, comforting grip. He felt Remy’s muscles react with his emotions, drawing up tight as he closed his eyes. He was breathing deeply and loudly through his nose, trying to master what he was feeling.

“Let it out, Rem.”

“Non.”

“C’mon.”

“Ain’ gonna do dis.” But his free hand was already trembling, reaching up to massage his closed lids.

Without further entreaty, Logan picked up one of the throw cushions and laid it over his lap. He tugged Remy’s hand. “C’mere.”

“It’s okay, mec-“

“Naw, it ain’t. C’mere. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

“Don’ hafta do dis.”

“What if I think I need to, huh?” Remy fought it, then gave up when he realized Logan really meant it, that he wouldn’t let him go. He shook his hand free and collapsed onto Logan’s lap. Logan waited about three breathless seconds for the flood gates to break loose.

Remy’s intake of breath was choked and harsh, and it pricked at Logan sharply. “Let it out.” He winced as Remy’s fingers curled like hard little claws, gripping Logan’s leg and digging into the hard seam of his denims. He watched Remy’s features crumple and his own body vibrated with the force of his almost silent heaves. Logan stroked his arm and combed through his long, soft hair. “Let it out, baby. It’s okay.”

“Ain’t okay,” he moaned hoarsely. “It ain’t okay.” Hot tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes and darkened the corduroy fabric of the cushion. Logan was reaching over him, lightly slapping his hip. Remy followed his urging and twisted, pulling his legs up onto the couch.

“We almost lost him once. Because of Julien’s shit back den, too. Dis wuz different. Before…it wuz different.”

“How?” Logan reached down and skimmed the pad of his thumb over Remy’s damp cheek.

“His dealin’. He got himself arrested. Social Services almost took our son. I wuz such a fucking idiot back den. Turned a blind eye. Kept my head in de sand ‘bout what he wuz doin’.”

“Jesus.”

“Bella let ‘im move back in. Didn’ have any choice way back; he couldn’ live wit’ Bella’s parents, because they didn’ live in town. House arrest.”

“Gotta stay in the same county,” Logan supplied for him, understanding.

“Ev’ryt’in was fucked up,” Remy continued, shivering. “Hated ‘im. Had de phone tapped, he had on dat damn anklet. Cut off phone calls in de middle. Once he wuzn’t dealin’ anymore, he didn’ have all dat disposable income. He wuzn’t contributin’ shit.” Logan’s rhythmic stroking of his hair felt good, making him drowsy. Logan sheltered him with his warmth and his slow, even heartbeat. He spoke the words that dogged him all day. “Didn’ want ya ta see dat shit.”

“I ain’t met anyone that ain’t got some,” Logan pointed out.

They sat silently like that for a while. Remy wasn’t crying above and beyond the occasional rivulet of tears that soaked the pillow beneath his cheek.

“She took him back into de house. I didn’ know if he wuz back ta dealin’, but he’s usin’ again.”

“What are ya thinkin’ about doin’?”

“Wanna get my son back. If she’s gonna keep Julien dere, she don’ need ta keep Rene.”

“Think she’s even gonna let him stay there now?”

“I don’ know what ta t’ink.”

“Nah. Guess you wouldn’t,” Logan agreed. He sighed, then bent down to kiss Remy’s temple.

Remy felt some small sense of pride when Rene had clamored for him when they got back to Bella’s house. Julien was detained at the station when the officer on site noticed his condition in the lot, particular his slurring responses and red eyes. If past history was any indication, Remy knew his brother in law had connections. He wouldn’t be off the street long.

Rene’s cake sat on the table, untouched and forgotten. His presents were still piled in the back of the car. He balked when Belladonna tried to take him back to get him into his pajamas. He wouldn’t set foot near his own bedroom, even though it was empty.

“Wan’ Papa,” he moaned petulantly when she tried to hold him.

“Ya sure, petit?” she crooned. Her face was stricken when she met Remy’s eyes over the top of their son’s head. Remy nodded, reaching for him. He collected his son to his chest and held him so tightly his arms hurt.

He bundled him into his car along with a meager overnight back and a handful of his son’s favorite toys. Rene was already asleep before they turned onto Remy’s street, burrowed beneath his old baby blanket.

Logan had followed him to Bella’s, even though he never went inside the house. He didn’t need to eavesdrop on the family’s problems, but he wanted to make sure Rene made it inside, safe and sound, and see if Remy needed him. When Remy lifted his son from the car and carried him upstairs, Logan followed with his things and helped him get settled, unpacking items like his toothbrush and turning down the covers on Remy’s bed, since Rene wouldn’t be using the guest room or camping out on the couch this time.

Logan’s legs were growing cramped from their position, but it felt so peaceful having Remy’s warm bulk plastered against him that he didn’t want to move. 

Having a lover took little effort. Caring about one was another whole ball of wax.

“Remy…don’t ever feel ya hafta hide anything from me.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Because I care about you so damned much. You mean so much. The words were caught in Logan’s throat; unspoken, they stung, but released, they spelled the likely destruction of the tentative, fragile bond they had. He hated that he didn’t know what to do.

Wasn’t this supposed to be uncomplicated?

Remy was on the same page, and he remained just as mum about it. I know I don’t deserve you, but don’t go. I need you.

He rose, surprising Logan when he stood and stretched. He felt bereft of his warmth and the contact that had become rare lately. 

“I know ya’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Logan was resigned. He knew he wasn’t staying over, but it still smarted to be dismissed. It was for the best. Rene was still quiet, thankfully, and if Remy headed back soon enough, he would be there before any night terrors arose. Remy followed him to the door and undid the dead bolts. He took Logan’s hat down from the hook and handed it to him.

“Gonna work my usual day tomorrow,” Remy told him. “Jus’ in case.”

“Okay.” Logan didn’t promise to call, wanting to leave it up to Remy. “Get some rest.”

“Oui.” Logan opened the door and was about to cross the threshold when Remy’s hand caught his forearm. Logan’s head swiveled to peer back up at him over his shoulder. 

“Ya okay?”

Remy replied by snaking his arm around his neck and pulling him so Logan’s back was flush against his chest. Logan tipped his head back and parted his lips to receive Remy’s kiss. It was long and slow, filled with more tenderness than passion. Logan’s hand stole up to cradle the back of Remy’s head and he sighed in contentment. When they came up for breath, Remy continued to embrace him like that, standing and spooning. To Logan, it felt possessive and promised more than either of them could give.

“G’night, chere.”

“’Night, kiddo.”

*

Julien sat in the holding tank with six other occupants, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale urine wafting his way from one of his neighbors. Vic was sticking it to him. He was going to leave him hanging. It had been an hour since his “one phone call,” and he was growing antsy. His high had long worn off.

“Beudreaux,” the guard barked from the corridor. Julien surged to his feet, glad to leave the hard, cold bench. “You’re out. Someone posted bail.”

“Hot damn,” he muttered. Vic came through. He felt the envy of his cell mates following him out the door.

They led him out to the lobby. Victor was waiting, looking irritated as he stared at his surroundings, but his expression twisted into a smirk once he saw him.

“Nice,” he muttered. “Look at ya.”

“T’anks,” Julien began. Victor held up his hand.

“Save that shit. C’mon.”

“Gotta get my car outta impound.”

“Not today, ya don’t.” Victor stood and gestured for Julien to walk ahead of him. Julien shivered from the cold rash that suddenly ran down his arms and back.

They headed several blocks away to Vic’s black Escalade. They paused while Victor leaned back against the bumper, lighting a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating Victor’s face briefly as the ashes caught, burning reddish-orange in the darkness. Victor took a hungry pull and blew out the smoke through his nose. He stared Julien down.

“Sloppy shit. This was brilliant. I love it. I love that shit.”

“Vic-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Victor shrugged. “Just shut the fuck up. Ya don’t wanna play with me right now.”

Julien felt nauseous.

“I told ya, anyone workin’ for me’s gotta work clean, but more than that, I don’t put up with sloppy. Think this looks good?”

“Non,” Julien offered. He swallowed roughly and stared at the ground. It was impossible to meet Victor’s steely blue gaze.

“Ya owe me.”

“I know.”

“Ya don’t wanna owe me.”

“Non.”

“Just so we’re straight.” He unlocked the doors with a click. “Get in.”


	15. Don't Knock on My Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julien succumbs to his old ways, taking Remy with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, this is getting harder and harder to write. The minor characters in this are clamoring in my head to be heard. Thank you so much for anyone who’s reviewed this so far, I’m happy to see people enjoying it, since it is a slight departure from some of my stories and the way they are usually structured.

Logan came home to the scent of the dishes he’d left in the sink from breakfast and grimaced. He kicked off his work boots and flicked on the set, punching ESPN on the remote. It felt good to be back, even if it was just for lunch. Summers begged off to go to one of Lee’s OB visits, so that gave Logan the excuse to unwind for a little longer than usual.

Moments later, he hummed to himself and moved the used, sticky bowls and frying pan around beneath the hot, soapy water, contemplating what to eat. The pickings were slim; he needed to get groceries soon.

Remy hadn’t called him in three days. Logan didn’t want to panic, but he was slightly disappointed. Well…who was he kidding? Very disappointed.

His kitchen phone’s sharp trill interrupted Logan from his musings. He fumbled for the kitchen towel hanging from the refrigerator door handle and scrubbed his hands mostly dry.

“H’lo?”

“Logan?” The voice was female and vaguely familiar.

“Yup?”

“It’s Colleen,” she told him. “Remember? Lee and Scott’s wedding?”

“Wow! Hey, darlin’. What’s goin’ on?”

“Not much. I just had the urge to talk with you for a minute. I’m taking my lunch break now. My whole day’s been a mess.”

“That busy, huh?”

“Ugh.” He could picture her grimacing and Logan smiled. “I have a client wanting me to trace his wife’s comings and goings.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It’s been educational,” she chuckled. “It makes you wonder why some people get married.”

“I don’t even wanna know.”

“You’re right. You don’t.”

“But things are goin’ well, darlin’?”

“Pretty much. But hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go grab a bite to eat? Can you get away?”

Logan looked down at himself in disgust. He smelled and his clothing and skin were covered here and there with plaster and paint. “Maybe not right away. I’m a little ripe, darlin’. Gimme fifteen ta wash up.”

“Wanna meet at Moe’s?”

“Yeah.” Logan liked their food well enough, and it was a nice enough day to sit in their front window and enjoy the patchy sunshine.

The hot water felt good rushing over him in the shower. Logan sang along with the radio as he towel dried his hair and misted himself in deodorant body spray. It was nice that Colleen called; he needed a distraction.

By the time he got to the deli, she was already waiting for him at the counter, ordering her food. She turned and smiled, leaning forward and pecking his cheek.

“You said you’re just off work? You clean up nice,” she chuckled.

“Brat. Thanks. What’re ya gettin’?”

“Pastrami.”

“Reuben?”

“My favorite.”

“Make it two,” Logan told the cashier as he pulled out a twenty, stopping Colleen’s grab for her wallet.

They sat and enjoyed their root beers amidst the shop’s clamor, sharing a small bag of lime and pepper potato chips.

“Ya look good,” Logan remarked.

“I feel knackered. It’s been one job after another. It’s hard, Logan. With a job like mine, I stop thinking that people are basically good. Y’know?”

“That bad?”

“Without going into detail, my last finished job was tracking a guy with not just one, but three wives. Had kids with all of them. Said he was a traveling salesman.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“They all believed him. That’s just insane. But that’s just it…it’s hard enough having one marriage, and being accountable to one person and expecting them to be honest with you! But three? That’s an ego for you.”

“What kinds of cases do you take aside from that kind?”

“A little of everything. Why? Got someone you need me to nab?” She grinned at him. Logan sighed tellingly, and her smile faltered. “Uh-oh. Do you? Is something going on?”

“Possibly. I don’t know yet. It’s complicated.”

“Tell me a little of what’s happening. Let me get a feel for it.”

“’Kay. There’s this person…well, this guy…” Logan explained. Colleen nodded, rapt. “He’s a good friend. A really good friend.” 

“You care about him?” She remembered the pertinent details from their date at the reception, and Logan was grateful that her dark eyes weren’t judging him.

“Yeah. I do.”

“This pretty recent?”

“It hasn’t been goin’ on too long, now. Maybe just a couple of months.”

“Do you think it’s getting serious? How does he feel about things?”

“I think we’re on the same page. Problem is…I didn’t wanna jinx it. Don’t wanna overtalk it.”

“Typical male,” she accused. She took another chip and nibbled it, then used it to point at him. “Be blunt. Be direct about what you want and expect. I tell that to all my clients, no matter what their situations. Assumptions are what lead to misunderstandings and one partner walking all over the other one. Don’t go into this with your eyes closed, no matter how charming he is.”

“It ain’t just that. I think he’s in trouble.” She looked concerned. “I get the feelin’ he’s dodged a couple of bullets up until now.”

“Illegal stuff?”

“His brother in law.”

“Hm.”

“He used ta live with the guy while he and his ex were still together.”

“And?”

“I met him this weekend. Shady as fuck. Eyes were all bloodshot, looked and smelled like he was high.”

“Shit. Where did you meet him?”

“A Chuck E Cheese down the road from where I live.” Her brows drew together. “Yeah. Ya don’t wanna know.”

“Okaaayyyy…”

“Remy’s son was havin’ his birthday.”

“Your friend is Remy?”

“Yup.”

“I like that name.”

“He’s a great kid. Younger’n me. His son’s cute, nice kid, too.”

“So he’s a dad. That’s a big risk, dating someone with children.”

“I know that.”

“It can be worth it, if you try to make it work.”

“That’s where I’m torn, darlin’. I need ta know more about him. About Remy, but just as importantly, about this brother in law of his.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“A bit. But I think there’s more to it than what he’s tellin’ me.”

“So, what? You don’t want to pry? You might have more luck getting the whole story out of him going the direct route, straight from the horse’s mouth, Logan.”

“Is there anything I can do just ta look up his background? If ya wanna take it as a job, I’ll make it worth yer while.”

“You might not have to hire me,” she said easily. She reached into her purse and snagged her Blackberry. She began typing rapidly, pulling up her contacts. She showed him the tiny screen. “Here. This Web site is one I use to look up county listings and arrests, or warrants someone might have on their record. If this guy has a rap sheet, this is the place to find it.”

Logan grunted, reading the URL. “Got a pen?” She lent him one and he scribbled the address on a napkin.

“That might be the best place to start.”

“Appreciate it, darlin’.”

“Just keep this in mind. You might not like what you find. Sometimes knowledge like that is helpful, but it can be a burden. This could shatter your image of who your friend is, and you might not trust him again. Just think about that before you dig too deep.”

*

 

Later that night, Walter keyed his way into his penthouse, already envisioning himself in pajama bottoms and bare feet.

The sound of Vic’s music greeted him, louder than he might have liked. It didn’t help that they didn’t have the same taste in it, either. Walter preferred classical music, show tunes or soft rock. Victor’s was typically driving, bass-heavy acid rock or heavy metal, or honky-tonk drinking music that made Walter wince.

But no one ever said love was perfect.

Walter headed for the bedroom and automatically turned the volume knob on his expensive stereo down several notches. Victor looked up from his computer screen and smirked.

“Take a load off, bub.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“You tell me.”

“I thought you would have had something going by now. It’s almost six.”

Victor shrugged. “So we’ll get take-out.”

Walter’s lips thinned. “You’ve already been home for a couple of hours.”

“And? I look like fuckin’ Betty Crocker?” Vic rose and met him at the doorway. He pried his briefcase from his large hand and tugged him over the threshold. Walter was a large man, easily the same size as Vic, but his boyfriend yanked him over to the bed and shoved him back. 

“Oof! Easy. I’ve had a long day.”

“Doin’ what? Buildin’ a better bomb? Or were ya playin’ with Legos?” Victor’s hands were insistent, tugging at him, shucking his jacket and tossing it onto his computer chair.

“Don’t leave it there,” Walt complained.

“Yeah, yeah, yer Highness. I’ll clean up in a minute.” Walter’s hands batted his away, but Victor was stubborn, and the slight struggle was a turn-on. “Damn, Walter, what’s been on yer mind? Why are yer nipples all hard, huh?” He groped him over the fine silk of his dress shirt. Walter gave a long-suffering sigh, but his body arched into Victor’s touch.

“You’re twisted, you know that?”

“No’m not,” Victor murmured into the side of his throat. Walter shivered as his tongue swiveled over his warm flesh while he continued to tease his nipple into a hard little bud.

“Are, too.”

“Okay. You win. I am. Mmmmmmm…” Victor closed in on him, leaning down to better devour Walter’s neck. His large hand was working itself in through the flap of his shirt, jerking open the tiny buttons. He smelled the change in Walter’s scent; he knew he was becoming aroused despite his earlier irritation with him. It was time to help the good doctor unwind, then, wasn’t it?

Walter’s breath was sharp and coming in short little pants as Victor ran his palm over his taut abdomen. He had his early morning workouts to thank for his physique, despite the fact that he worked long hours at a desk job. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, despite the fact that he was a very large man. Victor’s hands made short work of his clothing, jerking him out of his pants and reaching into his snug, black cotton briefs to grope his hardness. Walter’s cock swelled and thrust into his grip and Victor’s kiss was greedy, dominating him completely. Walter moaned at the taste of him, letting his tongue plunder his mouth. His lips were hard and hot, and Walter couldn’t get enough of Victor. It would prove to be his undoing.

Victor pushed him farther back, urging him to move up toward the head of the bed. The textures of Victor’s clothing rasped over his bare skin, since he still hadn’t taken off his rough Levi’s and ribbed black wifebeater. Vic ground against him and Walter’s arms twined around him, hands fisting in his long, gloriously thick blond hair. He tugged it from the elastic that clubbed it back, letting it loose to tent their faces as they kissed. Every inch of Victor was a sensual feast; his cords of muscle felt rock hard beneath Walter’s hands and he loved the coarse scratch of his stubbled jaw brushing his neck, enflaming his nerve endings.

Walter grumbled in complaint as Victor reared back a moment and unzipped, freeing his erection. It was rosy and gorgeously thick, the long vein along its underside standing out in sharp relief. He knelt and grasped Walter’s legs, flipping him onto his stomach with surprising ease.

“Damn it! C’mon, Vic! Not like this.”

“Not like what? Huh? C’mon, darlin’, ya know ya like it.”

“Want to see you,” he grated out, even as Victor was bending over him, lapping a slick trail down his spine, all the way down into the cleft of his ass. Despite his objections, Walter jutted his hips up, offering himself for easier inspection.

He groaned loudly at the press of Victor’s tongue as it slithered toward his sensitive pucker. He knew without looking that Victor was priming himself, pumping his cock as he licked him. The thrust of his tongue claimed the last of Walter’s sense of reason, and within minutes he forgot his own name.

He chanted his lover’s instead once Victor was inside him, filling and stretching him with his thickness. Victor didn’t even bother to take off his clothes. It wasn’t the first time. Victor despised vulnerability in himself, and Walter’s was a means to an end  
Victor was a machine, pistoning and pounding into him ruthlessly, growing lost in the hold he had over him. I’m doing this to you. I’m in control… Sweat broke out over his skin and his hand gripped the scruff of Walter’s neck possessively. Walter’s cock leaked precum, and he yearned for Victor to grope him to relieve him of his painful erection, but begging him didn’t help. All it did was amuse Victor, and then he drew it out, taking what pleasure he could in his desperation. Victor sensed his reticence and wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted to break him. His fingernails dug into Walter’s vulnerable hip as he rode him, swiveling his hips to hit his prostate at a different angle. Walt’s voice was guttural and choked.

“Oh, God!” Walter tried to bury his head in the pillow, but Victor wouldn’t let him. He wanted to hear him get loud. Walter’s snug heat squeezed him like a glove. He took whatever Victor had to give, a complete one-eighty from the dynamic between him and Logan. Victor raked his fingernails down Walter’s back, making him jerk and buck back against him greedily. Their balls slapped together again and again, drawing up tightly and growing ruched and leathery with the impact. Victor made a sound of approval and squeezed the globe of Walter’s ass, then slapped it hard enough to make his palm sting. Walter cried out, his voice rising in pitch, and Victor spanked him again, harder, then again, and again. Walter would be walking funny for the next couple of days, but it was worth it. Every time, it was worth it. Some tiny voice in the back of his mind nagged him that he deserved this punishment…that Victor was right to withhold his pleasure, to hurt him. As much as he craved his tenderness, Walter reveled in his brand of pain.

Walter’s cries rose above the music and Victor was in his element. “You like that,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Ya can’t get enough of my cock in yer ass.”

“Please…”

“Please? What’s this ‘please’ shit? Say my name, Walt.” He leaned in and reached down to savagely pinch Walter’s vulnerable little nipple. “Say it, darlin’…”

“Vic,” he gasped. “Wanna…come, Vic. Please.”

“Who’s daddy’s little bitch?”

“Me,” he whimpered.

“Can’t hear ya. Who’s my bitch.”

“I am!”

“Didn’t hear that, baby. Tell me again…”

“I’m your bitch, I’m your little bitch.” 

It felt so good to break him.

“I’m your bitch…oh, God, Victor, give it to me…give it to your little bitch,” he chanted. It was music to Victor’s ears. He sped up, losing himself in Walter’s loving, helpless grip and his humiliation, which was like a drug.

“Yesssssss!” Victor’s orgasm rattled its way down his spinal cord, making his hips spasm and buck faster, harder, until he pushed Walter over the edge with him, helped along by Walter’s own hand pumping himself. Thick, creamy semen spattered the rich, Egyptian cotton sheets beneath them, and Walter received the infusion of Victor’s seed drenching his insides, making him groan and shudder. Victor pulled out of him prematurely, and he pumped himself, emptying the rest of his release all over Walter’s quivering bare back.

Any other man would have collapsed into a heap beside his lover, brain cells turned to paste. Victor simply lunged up from the bed, using the corner of the bed sheet to wipe the head of his cock. Walter moaned into the pillow, sated. But that turned to confusion as he stared up at his boyfriend, watching him zip his jeans and retrieve a brush.

“What’re you doing?”

“Gonna get that takeout,” Victor shrugged. “And gonna run a few errands.”

Walter craved a shower with him. The mingled scents of their musk and sex lingered in the rumpled sheets and drenched Walter, and he wanted to hold Victor and bask in his solid heat. When that wasn’t forthcoming, he was laid back, disappointed.

“Why don’t you ever wear that new shirt I bought you?”

“Eh.” Victor shrugged. Walter was slightly hurt.

“It brings out your eyes. It’s nice to look respectable once in a while.”

“Respectable,” Victor jeered, watching him and shaking his head. “Fuck that shit. Ya want me ta look more like you goin’ out the door.”

“You were there when I picked it out.” Victor had no problem with Walter spending money on him. It was amusing most of the time. He actually liked most of it, such as the electronics or jewelry, but Walter kept insisting on the clothes, too, even though most of it hung untouched in the back of their closet. He didn’t want to be dressed up like his little pet. Walter thought he was grooming Victor, but Vic was grooming him.

“Take a shower.” Victor’s tone was dismissive. He leaned down and gave Walt a hard kiss, roughly patting his cheek.

“So we aren’t fixing anything to eat here, then?”

“Nah.” Walt listened to the brief jingle of keys being stuffed into Vic’s hip pocket. “Take it easy. Shower and DVR that game so we can watch it again tonight.” Walt slowly got his bearings and pulled himself to a sitting position as Vic strode out the door. It closed with a low slam. Walter winced as he lumbered to the bathroom. He was sore and well-used. Every drop of tension he’d felt when he first walked in through the door had drained away; he had Vic to thank for that, at any rate, but his lover’s ability to turn off his affection with the flick of a switch frustrated him.

Walter lingered behind in the shower and indulged in his scented gels and scrubbers. His skin tingled and glowed as he stepped out of the tub, and he hummed to himself as he went through his usual motions to settle in. Off went Victor’s noisy music, on went his soundtrack to Rent, and he slipped into a pair of dark blue silk pajama pants that felt fantastic against his skin.

Takeout didn’t appeal to him. Walt rummaged through the refrigerator and found a serving of leftover salmon and began eating it cold. He sat down at the kitchen table and reviewed his mail, glad that Vic had been thoughtful enough to bring it in.

He opened all the bills and laid all of them out in a neat pile, taking out his checkbook. He ripped open the bank statement last.

His heavy blond brows drew together as he reviewed each line against his register. It didn’t add up.

 

*

Julien had a hell of a day.

He sat outside Jean-Luc and Sons Racing and Auto in the passenger seat of Vic’s runner. The wiry blond chugged a bottle of cherry Dr. Pepper in noisy gulps, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Kyle Gibney made Julien uncomfortable, even when he was high. The rest of Vic’s crew nicknamed him “Wild Child.” The moniker fit him too well. He was Victor’s yes man. He was the one who drove the getaway car or was his backup gun, a quick, sharp shot whenever Vic needed him to clean up a mess. Rumor had it Kyle had a thing for pain. None of the working girls who reported to Vic trusted him, and they were smart.

His body was lean and hard, ripping with muscle. His skin was fair and blotchy, here and there striated with scars, and his nose was crooked from being broken twice. He had long blond hair like Victor’s and hard, narrow blue eyes that always looked smug. His face shone with silver piercings that glinted in the dim streetlights as they watched the store from across the street.

“Ya sure this is when the old man locks up?”

“Yeah,” Julien muttered, taking a drag of his Camel.

“Gimme one of those,” Kyle demanded, punching him in the arm. Julien handed him the box and he deftly tapped one out. He retrieved an almost empty pack of matches and tore off a strip, striking its dingy red strip. He lit up and inhaled the pungent smoke hungrily, blowing it out with an annoyed growl. “C’mon, old man! Fucker!” He turned his radio on low volume, but it was pounding music that made Julien’s teeth ache.

Julien stole glances at him, studying his tattoos to amuse himself. Kyle caught his glance and scowled.

“What, fucker?”

“Not’in’.”

“Put yer eyes back in yer head,” he reminded him.

“Dat’s him,” Julien said suddenly, nodding to the older, dark-haired man coming out of the store. He watched as he locked the door, giving the door a couple of experimental jerks to make sure it was secure. Philippe lit a cigarette for himself and set his soda bottle on the roof of his car as he fumbled for its key.

“There ain’t anyone else who works in the shop?”

“Nate’s his mechanic. He’s already gone by now.”

“So there ain’t anyone else?”

“Non.”

“Better not be shittin’ me,” he warned him. Julien felt frissons of anticipation rush over him as Philippe turned on his engine. Almost there. They were moments away from getting it over with.

Philippe pulled out of the lot. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of Kyle’s Mustang as they pulled onto the street.

The lot was nearly empty; the remaining cars were parked outside the neighboring stores, and Julien wasn’t overly worried about them. The lot was appallingly dark, making it an unappealing place to pass by for pedestrians at that hour. Julien was grateful for it now. When they parked, he gathered up his long dark hair into a ponytail and crammed it all under a baseball cap. They got out of the car and headed around to the back of the building. Julien added dark glasses once they reached the door. Kyle looked around warily, then bundled his long, distinctive hair under a black winter cap.

Julien already knew the window he’d entered through was reinforced since his last grab; Philippe put out the extra cash to have it bars installed over it. Kyle was the man to help Julien get back in this time, since he was also a crackerjack lockpick. His heart hammered as he heard the clicks of Kyle’s tools manipulating the lock. “C’mon, c’monnnn,” he groaned under his breath.

“Easy, asshole. This ain’t Go Fish.” Kyle’s voice promised a beating if Julien nagged him any further, so he shut up and paced away a few steps, arms crossed over his chest. He scanned the perimeter, and so far, no one appeared to spot them.

The jerk of the door behind him jarred Julien from his reverie. “We’re in.”

“Nice,” he grunted. The shop smelled the same, rich with the odors of motor oil and polyurethane. Julien noticed a hint of cigarette smoke mingling with those scents, too, and something sweet, no doubt the remnant of a soda someone chucked in the trash.

They fumbled in the dark; Julien was afraid to turn on his flashlight, but Kyle didn’t demand it anyway. He moved confidently toward the office in back without stumbling once.

“How can ya see in here, mec?”

“Good night vision. Eat yer carrots, asshole,” he shrugged. He tried the door, but it was locked, too. He made shorter work of it since the mechanism wasn’t as complex.

The office looked the same way Julien remembered it.

“What the fuck? This you?” Kyle inquired. He tapped a framed photo on the wall next to the cabinet. Sure enough, the picture showed Belladonna and Remy holding Rene when he was about two at a family picnic. Julien hovered in the background, smiling and pretending to offer the baby a beer. “Could ya have picked a worse mark, man?”

“Don’ gimme dat shit. Jus’ help me look around, mec.” He tried all of the previous places and found Philippe’s petty cash box again, but this time there was hardly anything in it, just enough to make change. “Shit!”

“Tell me that ain’t all. Ya didn’t bring me here just fer this,” Kyle tsked.

“Register’s out front,” Julien reminded him, but he was unsure. Kyle sneered, baring his jagged looking canines.

“Can’t believe Vic made me tag along fer this petty shit.”

They headed out to the shop, and Julien went directly to the register. He opened a small drawer and found the sticky note with the entry code scribbled on it in Remy’s scrawl. He’d stumbled over that by sheer luck before; Julien was surprised that he’d left it there after the theft.

“Gonna look around. Gotta be somethin’ else more worth our while than this,” Kyle muttered.

“Don’ take anyt’in’ too obvious, mec!”

“If we don’t get caught, then who gives a fuck?” he tossed over his shoulder. Julien broke out into a sweat, then nervously punched in the entry code.

The register beeped and flashed “Error” on its display. “Re-Enter Code.”

“SHIT!”

“Whatsamatter?”

“Changed it,” he snapped. “Dey changed de code.”

“Try another one, genius.”

Julien stubbornly tried the original one three more times before he went with the same numbers in a different order. Nothing. He tried birthdays and random dates. No joy. “C’mon, c’mon!” he growled, slapping the side of the register. He slammed the “No Sale” button several times, but it just dinged at him.

“Don’t waste yer time with that shit,” Kyle barked. “C’mere an’ help me get some of these. We can move this shit for a decent price. Don’t make it a wasted trip.”

“Gotta open dis,” Julien argued.

Suddenly someone’s high beams illuminated the parking lot outside, throwing unwelcome, stark yellow light through the windows. Julien winced and ducked.

“FUCK!”

“Geddown!” Kyle hissed. He set down the box of tools he’d lifted from the shelf and crouched in the dark. Julien held his breath and ducked behind the counter, waiting. His heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was afraid Kyle would hear it.

Julien’s hopes that it was someone returning to one of the other stores in the lot were dashed when he heard the front lock being keyed. His bowels clenched as his fight/flight response kicked in, and he broke out in a cold, sickening sweat.

He didn’t know where Kyle was; he was out of sight of the large security mirror in the corner of the ceiling.

The door’s chime bonged as Philippe returned, whistling as he entered the shop. He bypassed the sales counter and headed straight back toward his office. Julien froze. 

They’d left it unlocked. The door was ajar.

“Merde,” he heard the older man hiss. He turned on the light, and more cursing followed as Julien listened to him sliding open the drawers and cabinets.

He grew more petrified when he heard him dialing his phone and speaking to someone in his rapid, broken English. “Wanna report a break-in. Oui. Uh-huh. Jean-Luc an’ Sons…”

Before his mind could register that Philippe was talking to the police, Julien felt a hand clap itself over his mouth. Kyle met his wide, terrified eyes with a cold glare.

C’mon, he mouthed silently. Now. They had one chance. Both men slunk carefully and quickly out from behind the counter. Philippe was still talking on the phone.

Julien’s foot banked itself on the edge of a tower of motor oil cans. He lost his balance and knocked over several. His heart stopped. Kyle spun on him, furious. His hand reached for the waist of his pants for something that was obscured by his loose tank top.

“What de hell…?” Philippe dropped the phone and hurried out into the hallway, flicking on the light as he went. Suddenly the whole shop was lit up bright as day. Julien was almost blinded by the harsh shift back from his night vision. He stumbled again and darted for the door. Even if they got out, he would see them as they got into the car, and he regretted that one of them hadn’t stayed in it with the engine running.

“YOU! Where ya t’ink yer goin’?” Philippe accused. “What bizness y’have breakin’ in my shop?” Huh?” He sized them up, noticing their dark hats and glasses. His dark eyes narrowed as he took in Julien. “What de hell…?”

“Shoulda left the lights off, old man,” Kyle announced coldly. He whipped out the Glock he had tucked in his waistband and leveled it at Remy’s uncle. “Nighty-night.”

BAM!

 

*

RIIIINNNNGGG…

Logan groaned and smacked his lips, wincing at the sound. He spied his clock, and the red digital display glowed in the darkness, telling him it was 12:05. 

“Someone better be tellin’ me I won the Lotto,” he muttered futilely. His body protested the interruption in his sleep, since he’d spent the entire day before drywalling and his back was sore. He padded barefoot to the dresser and picked up the handset on the third ring.

“H’lo?”

“Chere. S’me.”

“Rem…what’s wrong, darlin’? Ya sound like shit.” Logan knew he probably didn’t sound any better, his own voice was raspy and thick with sleep.

“ ‘m at de hospital,” he choked. Logan’s eyes snapped open.

“Why?” He rubbed his face and stood more erect. “Ya okay?”

“Oui. But Oncle…” His voice choked up again, and Logan grew very worried.

“What happened?”

“My uncle was shot tonight,” he blurted.


	16. Don't Knock on My Door Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse. Trouble finds Remy after all of his running, and his time may have run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be angst. There will be drama. There will occasionally be blood. After that, the outcome is anyone’s guess.

Someone tried to brighten the drab hospital suite with an art print of two women in Victorian dresses playing tennis. It was a laughable, wasted effort.

Remy’s soda sat untouched on the tiny bedside table with a broken corner as he held his uncle’s hand. He was resting quietly, except for the noisy whistle of oxygen through his cannula, or the beeps and ticks of the telemetry equipment that monitored his heartbeat.

The large white clock beside the door read 4:15AM. His eyes were bloodshot and he was having a hard time keeping them open. But he needed to stay awake; sleep wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

It took the surgeon four hours to stabilize Philippe. He’d been rushed to the OR on a gurney, clothing drenched in blood and been returned to Remy snugly bandaged and dressed in a drab blue patient gown, barely visible beneath the institutional white sheets and monitor cords.

Remy couldn’t guess at how many tubes they’d connected to his uncle or what half their functions were. All he cared was that they kept him alive.

His normally ruddy skin was pale. Even in sleep, Remy could see faint frown lines; his brows were slightly drawn together, as though his dreams were troubling him.

Moments later, he heard quick, heavy footsteps just outside his door. “This is his room?” he heard Logan’s familiar baritone inquire, right before it swung open, making the mini-blinds over the observation window rattle. Logan strode inside without hesitation. His face went from worried to noticeably upset as soon as he laid eyes on Remy, mirroring the mixture of anguish and anger on his uncle’s behalf.

“Aw, god, Rem,” he began, but he hurried toward him and enveloped him in a crushing hug. “What the hell happened?”

“Dey broke into de shop,” he said, his voice muffled by Logan’s denim jacket, but even so, his words sounded shaky to Logan’s ears. “De bastards shot ‘im. He wuzn’t doin’ anyt’in’ t’hurt anybody, an’ dey shot ‘im.” Remy hadn’t let go of his uncle’s hand, but his free arm snaked around Logan’s waist greedily, fingers digging into his back. Logan closed his eyes and bowed his face into Remy’s hair, tucking his head protectively under his chin. Remy felt safer within his embrace, but things were still too raw. Dark thoughts crossed his mind that he didn’t want to see blossom fully by lingering on them too long.

Please don’t go.

He’d called Logan because his heart raged at him that it was the right thing to do, that he was the only one who could help him focus and keep him grounded. Part of him wanted to admit that Logan, in many ways, kept the phantom boogey man away before he would swallow Remy whole. 

He didn’t want to need him. He didn’t want to call him in a panic in the wee hours, scared shitless. He didn’t want to burrow so deeply into his sturdy body’s heat and hold him so tightly that his arms ached.

And the reason was, simply put, he didn’t want to drive Logan away.

But he did these things and took comfort in his too tangible scent and heat and the strong grip of his hands. He absorbed his silent presence, drawn into it like oxygen.

He adopted his slow breathing, second nature by now whenever he held him. He needed him in order to breathe. Period.

“I’m sorry.” Logan’s voice was a rasp filled with interrupted sleep and concern. “I’m so sorry, Remy.” Remy nodded into his chest. “I know ya love him and that he’s an important person in yer life. He’s a good man.”

“He didn’ deserve dis, chere.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“M’blood ran cold when dey made dat call. Jus’ got off de phone wit’ Bell. Said g’night ta Rene. Told him…told him dat Papa wuz gonna see ‘im dis weekend an’ dat he didn’ hafta be scared anymore. No one wuz gonna take ‘im away from me an’ his maman. Said dat his oncle wuz gonna come over soon an’ have some cake wit’ ‘im since he didn’ get ta have any on his bir-“ His voice cut off.

“It’s okay.”

“It ain’t.”

“Okay.” Remy went back to bottling everything up, and Logan was too anxious to argue it out with him, at the expense of him pulling away.

It didn’t matter. Remy leaned back from his embrace and stared up at him hollowly. “Dis ain’t a fuckin’ coincidence.”

“Nah.”

“Had t’be de same ones who robbed him before, mec.”

“I know that, kiddo. That was my first thought. Have ya filed a report?”

“Gonna take care of dat in de mornin’,” Remy said. 

“Pretty bold, hittin’ the same place twice.”

“Philippe ain’ no sucker. Changed ev’ryt’in since de last time, de locks, de passwords on de cash box, you name it. Anyt’in’ worth stealin’s locked up in a safe like Fort Knox.”

“So whaddya think? Thieves still knew how ta get in.”

“Mighta brought in someone else ta worm dey way in,” Remy reasoned. Logan moved away from him when Remy’s body language closed up, signaling he no longer needed to be held. He settled for pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. They listened to the telemetry and blood pressure monitors hiss and beep, both hoping for some change in Remy’s uncle’s condition.

“Have ya told Rene?”

“Non. Gon’ wait til tomorrow.”

“Man, this is crazy, Rem.” His lover gave him a pained look.

“T’ink I don’ know dat?”

“I know ya know that. I’m just sayin’, what are the odds? Someone had ta be watchin’ yer uncle come an’ go, probably fer a while now.”

Remy banged his fist on the bedside table; his uncle didn’t even flinch. “What de fuck! It ain’ like we gotta lotta money! If anyone wuz gon’ steal somet’in’, why not de cars demselves?”

“Too easy ta find, even if the thieves stripped ‘em fer parts.”

A light went on in Remy’s head at Logan’s words.

“Parts,” he muttered.

“Yeah, don’tcha think…” Logan’s voice trailed off. “Rem?”

“Jus’ gimme a minute.” Remy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Julien…

It made sense. Remy wished it didn’t.

Bastard. 

The memories still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Julien used to visit the shop once in a while with Remy himself. He didn’t think anything of it. He professed a love of cars; Remy’s uncle joked that he would put him to work if he hung around long enough. And then he pretty much hung around all the time.

Julien knew his way around auto bodies and engines alike, and he frequently helped Remy work on independent projects like their car show entries. Philippe didn’t trust him with client repairs, much to Julien’s good natured annoyance.

He was the only other person Remy knew of who would know their way around the shop after hours. The conclusion he didn’t want to reach jumped up and bit him, hard.

His car smelled like pot after Bella gave it back to him. And by coincidence, the police showed up, responding to Oncle’s report that his shop was broken into and the money and receipts were gone.

Remy’s mind raced. Julien wouldn’t have had that difficult a time getting into the shop the first time, if he indeed did it.

Logan was worried about the look Remy wore, how he seemed to go completely blank for several seconds before a stony glare settled over his features. He seemed to forget Logan was in the room. “Remy?”

“Damn it,” he hissed as he shook off the moment. He snapped his head toward Logan and gave an exasperated sigh. “Tol’ you I needed a minute ta focus.”

“M’sorry,” Logan muttered, hurt. Remy drummed his fingers restlessly against his denim-clad knee, suddenly restless. Logan could see the wheels turning in his head, a complete one-eighty from the desperate, stricken man he’d been when he came into the room.

“Oncle ain’t woke up yet. Dat’s de only way Remy’s gon’ find out who did dis before de police do dere job.”

“What’re ya gonna do til then, darlin’?” If the endearment surprised Remy, he gave no sign.

“Jus’ wait,” he admitted. “But I gotta talk ta Bella. She said Julien’s been makin’ ‘imself scarce. I want dat fucker outta her house an’ away from Rene.”

“Kinda surprised that she hasn’t taken care of that by now,” Logan remarked carefully. “She’s gotta realize that he ain’t a good influence on yer son.”

“She’s been realizin’ dat fo’ a long time, but she ain’t doin’ anyt’in’ about it. It don’ matter fo’ shit dat he’s her brot’er.” Remy sighed. “Only way it’s gon’ make a lick of difference is if she gets a restrainin’ order.”

“No doubt.” Logan was nodding, but he looked frustrated. “Yer gonna hafta help her get him out. He won’t wanna cooperate.”

“It ain’ up ta him anymore, chere.” Remy’s jaw was set and his fist was curled up in his lap.

 

*

“Ya cost me money. Now I gotta put ya ta work,” Victor muttered eight hours later. His deep rasp echoed slightly in the large warehouse as he keyed his way in. Julien peered around and shivered against an imaginary chill. 

It was full of chopped cars. Three of them were up on blocks and another one was suspended off the floor while two men worked on its undercarriage.

“Gotta move these parts by sundown tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“Got twelve more cars out back.”

“Why so soon?”

“Because that ain’t the only merchandise I gotta move, genius.” He took Julien back to a room with a distressed wooden door with a ruined finish and peeling veneer. The lock rattled when he punched in his key and jerked it open. The lights suspended from the warehouse rafters cast eerie shadows over the large stacks of crates in the room, making both men’s silhouettes loom long and crooked over them, like a stain. Julien didn’t have to ask what they were. “Different clientele. Different needs. Folks I got comin’ in ain’t gonna wanna cross paths with the buyer who wants those.” He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder toward the cars behind him. “I need ya here.”

“Gotta head back t’my sister’s place an’ take care of –“

“Nah. Let whatever it is take care of itself. Ya need ta stay here, asshole.” Victor’s blue eyes were cold. Julien’s bladder squeezed with the effort to maintain his composure.

“Non, ya don’t understand, Vic, I gotta get back!”

“Naw. YOU don’t understand.” Victor kicked the door shut behind him and yanked Julien the rest of the way into the armory room in one smooth motion. Julien grunted as he was flung against the wall face first. His heart pounded and he broke out in cold sweat as Victor pinned him there, beefy palm planted between his shoulder blades.

His hot breath steamed Julien’s neck. “Ya don’t wanna cross me. Do ya.”

“N-non.”

“Do ya.”

“Uh-uh.” Julien swallowed with difficulty. The room smelled musty and mildewy beneath the cold tang of metal. “Vic…I’m in trouble, okay? M’sister’s scared after what happened when ya picked me up at de station. Gotta smoo’d t’ings over, neh?”

“Ain’t my problem if yer havin’ family troubles.”

“I live wit’ her, mec!” Julien’s voice came out as a strangled gasp on the last few syllables. “I ain’ got a place t’live yet if she kicks me out!”

“What the hell am I payin’ ya for, then?”

“Gotta rap sheet,” Julien moaned. His chest was still squeezing from the crushing pressure against his back. “Ain’ no one ‘round who’ll wanna rent t’me, mec. Ain’ got any friends ta stay wit’ right now.”

“Then ya make sure yer clients are yer friends. This is nickel an’ dime shit t’me. I need ya ta do a job, not give me yer sob story, Jul.” Victor sighed gustily, in contrast to the sharp dig of his fingers in Julien’s back. His other hand tangled in his long dark hair, snatching it roughly to make his head jerk back. Julien felt vulnerable and petrified. Victor Creed was a huge man with a short temper.

You didn’t fuck with Vic. Period.

“Might have a connection. G’wan and call yer sister and let her know ya have business elsewhere for the next coupla days.”

“Couple days?”

“Make yer excuses.” 

Julien felt everything caving in on him. This wasn’t just about being let in on the hustle anymore.

Victor owned him. And he stood poised to consume his soul. Julien forgot when it ceased to be his.

 

*

Belladonna snapped open another cardboard box and folded down the flaps, laying it aside with the other finished ones.

Filling them was cleansing, in its way. She folded each item of clothing carefully, smoothing them neatly out of habit. Julien was hopeless about doing his own laundry. He always had been.

His valuables she left out, bundled carefully into a small sack on her dresser so they wouldn’t get lost. Those she wanted to see him take out of harm’s way himself.

She felt hollow. Belladonna’s nerves had been on edge all day following a night of no sleep. Bloodshot, half-lidded eyes stared back at her from the mirror. 

She was glad Rene was in school, so that she didn’t have to answer his likely questions or delay that chore any further. Her son had been through so much. It was all so unnecessary…

A tear raced down her cheek before she even felt her eyes prick.

It wasn’t right. It never should have come to this.

Her brother Julien was a drug dealer, and he’d endangered her only son. The reality of it felt like someone punched her.

Her sniffles were staccato and intermittent, getting worse every time she bent to place a folded article of clothing in the box. She blew a strand of hair from her eye and wiped her nose in annoyance but continued her work.

She taped the boxes shut and marked each with a brief description of its contents with a thick Sharpie. Belladonna stacked them in the living room in the corner, inconspicuous without being hidden. Whenever Julien showed up, he would notice them easily enough. She didn’t relish their talk. Bella knew it would kill something precious between them that had already been dying for a long time.

She stared at an old photograph of herself standing next to him while he held Rene as a toddler that hung on her refrigerator door. It only made her ache more.

She composed herself to the best of her ability when the locksmith came, but he gave her a telling look as he came inside with his tools. She had no doubt in her mind that he’d seen it all during the course of his career.

*

Remy entered the shop through the back door, feeling slightly sick as he saw the yellow Do Not Cross tape strung across the front entrance. He went through the motions of rehanging the Closed sign in the window, as well as a white sheet of paper that he’d dashed “Closed down due to family emergency, sorry for the inconvenience” across in black pen. 

Once the police had come to take their report and some photos of the crime scene, Remy wandered about the shop, assessing the damage. The burglars hadn’t blatantly destroyed any property. Remy grew nauseated at the sight of blood on the floor in the shop; rusty brown spatters remained on a few nearby displays, making a cardboard stand-up of Dale Earnhardt appear grisly and chilling despite his friendly smile.

The desk and cabinets in the office showed signs of tampering, but what caught Remy’s eye was the photograph.

It was askew, as though someone had examined it and tried to put it back in a hurry. How ironic that it was one of Julien. Remy longed to dash the frame to the ground just to hear the satisfying shatter of glass, anything to do him damage.

“Know it wuz you, ya sonofabitch,” Remy muttered under his breath. He needed proof.

But in the meantime, his uncle and son needed him. Rene was scared and clingier than before, unwilling to let his father out of his sight. It took an act of congress to get him to go to school.

“Don’ go t’work, Papa,” he pleaded. His hazel eyes beseeched him, tearing at his reserve. “Want ya t’stay here!”

“Non. Gotta go an’ take care of some t’ings, petit. Papa’ll be fine.”

“Someone’s gonna come and hurt you!” he insisted. “Papa, ya’ve gotta come stay with me!” Rene’s arms held onto him with so much strength that he left his father physically sore. What made him feel like a heel was how protective his embrace was. Rene was trying to take care of him, when it was supposed to be the other way around.

“No one’s gonna hurt Papa,” he promised, kissing his forehead. “M’gonna be fine, chere. Jus’ fine. An’ I love you,” he told him. “Always gonna come back home t’you, petit.” Remy packed him a hearty lunch and lingered over arranging the contents of his backpack and other details of getting him ready. Maintaining his son’s routine seemed to calm him.

Nate and his uncle’s other mechanics came in slowly to check on him, knowing they weren’t going to open the shop. Nate’s face was wreathed in worry and sympathy. He clapped Remy’s shoulder and squeezed it in his rough palm.

“This sucks, man. I’m so sorry. What do you need? Can I do anything for you?”

“Non. T’anks. ‘Preciate it.”

“Philippe is the best. He didn’t deserve this. I hope they find that sonofabitch that did this. Your uncle’s one of the best friends I have, Rem, he’s like a father to me.”

“He’s almost all de family I have left,” Remy agreed. “No one messes wit’ Remy’s family. Dey picked de wrong man in de wrong shop t’attack, mec.”

Remy did another walkthrough, and the police stopped by to add more details to their report, interviewing Remy again. Remy confirmed that they didn’t get the money from the register, thanks in part due to the change in code. They also didn’t get the credit receipts this time, for which he was grateful.

He was unsettled and anxious by the time they left. Remy locked up the shop and exited through the back, deciding his time was better spent at the hospital.

His uncle appeared to be sleeping, but opened his eyes once Remy entered the isolated suite. His face was still wan beneath the oxygen tubes, and Remy barely heard his hoarse greeting over the hiss of air.

“Rem…c’mon over, chere.”

“Ain’ got any idea how glad Remy is ta see ya up an’ around,” he choked, hurrying forward. He bent down and kissed his forehead and was alarmed to feel how cool his skin was. “Who can I ask ta get ya anot’er blanket?”

“Nurse outside. De one in pink,” he rasped. The effort to speak was making his eyes watery, and he coughed harshly; it was a dry and ragged sound. There was a cup of water already poured from the pink plastic pitcher on the side table. His uncle’s head was already slightly elevated. Remy offered him a sip; Philippe jerked his face away from the edge of the cup after a scant taste, and Remy set it back down.

The nurse came within moments of Remy pressing the call button, and she spread one of the scratchy warmer blankets over him, tucking it in around his chest.

“Gon’ move me up ta de t’ird floor soon. Gonna have a roommate an’ different visitin’ hours.”

“Dat’s fine,” Remy agreed, holding his uncle’s hand. There was still strength in those gnarled, knobby fingers, scarred and hangnailed from daily rough work on his beloved cars. “Oncle, what d’ya remember from dat night?”

“Eh?”

“De night you got hurt. What happened?”

His uncle winced and grunted as he shifted against the pillow. “Ain’ sure yet.”

“It’s important.”

“I know it’s important,” he muttered. “Bad enough I wuz robbed. Didn’ need t’be shot.”

“How did he look? Did ya get a good look at ‘im?”

“Hunh…” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinching his eyes shut for a moment. “I t’ink I flicked on de light. Know what it’s like when it’s dark an’ ya suddenly turn on a light, and it takes a sec fer your eyes t’adjust?”

“Oui.”

“Dat’s how it wuz, Remy. I t’ink…damn. Can’t t’ink.”

“S’okay.”

“Non. It ain’t okay. Can’ remember what dey looked like.” That caught Remy’s ear.

“Dey? Dere wuz two of ‘em?”

“Wait a sec…oui. Dat’s what comes ta mind. Two of ‘em.”

“Remember anyt’in’ else?”

“Wuzn’t by de register. On de main floor.”

“Dere wuz stuff moved around and on de floor, like dey tried ta take some stuff.” Remy sighed. “De police already showed up an’ took a good look around.” He didn’t mention that there was blood everywhere. It wouldn’t help anything to upset him, or himself. Philippe picked at the nubby fiber of the blanket as he pushed his recall further for his nephew.

“Dark clothes, I t’ink. Don’ remember much of what dey wore.”

“How ‘bout dere faces?” Remy was losing hope, dread squeezing his insides.

“Faces…wait.” Remy sucked in a breath of anticipation. “Waitaminnit…” He rubbed his temple, then roughly tapped it with his fingers, as though he were trying to pry the image from his head. “Ponytail. Long an’ blond.”

“Wuz it a woman?”

“Non. Too big. Not a big man, eit’er. Saw de hair, looked odd…tucked in.”

Remy filed that information away. “What else?”

“He wuz de one holdin’ de gun.”

Remy had little to go on. The niggling thought wouldn’t let him go, even as his uncle shared fragments of the night he nearly lost his life.

“How’s Rene?” His uncle interrupted Remy’s reverie, and his eyes snapped back to the bed.

“On edge. Won’ let me leave de house wit’out a lotta drama. If someone could hurt you, den dey could hurt me, in his eyes.”

“He’s shook up. It’ll take time,” Philippe figured. “Give ‘im a hug.”

“Oui.”

“Still ain’ given ‘im my gift.”

“Dat’s all right. He got a whole mess of presents.”

“Wanted ta see his face when he opened it.” His uncle’s voice faltered, and he looked drowsy.” He hunched down slightly against the pillows, and Remy automatically adjusted the bed, lowering the back. Remy knew the visit would come to an end soon, and he didn’t want to exhaust him. “Wanted ‘im…have somet’in’ from his oncle…”

“Ain’ gonna matter ta Rene ‘bout de present. He wants his oncle back at ‘ome wit’ ‘im.”

“Keep ‘im away from dat frere of Bell’s,” he warned suddenly. Those watery brown eyes pinned him, beseeching him. Remy’s gut twisted.

“I know dat.”

“Non. Keep ‘im away. Get ‘im outta de house.”

“He ain’ gonna be dere anymore, Oncle.” Not if Remy had anything to say about it.”

Philippe caught his hand, squeezing it with surprising strength. “Julien…”

“Quoi?”

“Julien…he…he wuz…” Philippe made a low choking sound and his breath hitched in short gasps. His hand shook, even as he held Remy close, and his chest began to spasm.

“Oncle! ONCLE!”

 

*

Scott handed Logan a large sandwich wrapped in white butcher’s paper. “Here.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he murmured appreciatively as he hefted it and opened it up. He groaned in contentment around a mouthful of roast beef and tomatoes. “God,” he said, voice garbled, “that’s the stuff.”

They ate without much conversation due to hunger. The bathroom of the condo was shaping up nicely, and they sat in the hallway admiring their handiwork through the doorway.

Logan took the sandwich wrappers and wadded them up, chucking them into the trash. He stretched and grunted at the pain in his shoulder, but he was content that their work day was almost over.

“How’s Lee feelin’?”

“Pregnant,” Scott quipped. Logan snorted.

“Bet that’s some fun shit.”

“Heck, yeah. Late night runs for ice cream, having to drag my ass out of bed in my shorts from a warm bed, having to rub her feet, trying not to toss my own cookies when I hear her in the bathroom. And everything hurts. Her hip hurts, or her feet hurt, or her tits hurt. But that’s the side she shows me. If anyone else asks, she’s all radiant and saying “oh, at least the baby’s healthy!” he mimicked in a comical falsetto. Logan clapped his hand over his mouth, shoulders heaving. “Be glad it isn’t you.”

“Aw, man. That’s it. I’m getting my shit tied up in a double knot.”

“You don’t want kids, huh?”

“I just don’t want the headache involved in keeping one in the oven. I love kids,” Logan admitted.

“So? It’s only nine months,” Scott cajoled. “Time to quit making excuses and find someone to have babies with. Pass on that ugly mug of yours to the next generation.”

“Asshole.” Logan gulped down his Coke thirstily and noisily, smothering a belch. He punched his chest. “Oof. That burns.”

“That’ll being the women swarming in droves,” Scott sighed. Logan let his arms dangle over his spread knees, absently swishing the remaining soda in circles in the can.

“Sure it will.”

“What? No one new?”

“Nah.”

“Heard from Silver?” Scott asked hopefully.

“Nah.” Logan’s voice was more relieved than resigned. Scott chuckled.

“That answers that.”

“Nothing else to say in that vein. No regrets. I just wish we’d admitted it sooner that it wasn’t working. I want her to be happy, Summers, even if it ain’t with me.”

“So, what, are you just going to let the well run dry? Sucks to see you alone, man.”

“Bullshit. Ya just wanna hook me up again, don’t ya?”

“No! No,” Scott amended. “Of course not. Not unless you want me to-“

“Not on yer life, bub.”

“That was blunt.”

“I just don’t want any surprises. I don’t wanna end up starting the night with Linda Carter one minute, and then end up with Linda Blair halfway through the night.”

“Geez. Seen anything recent at the movies or on TV lately?”

“Asshat.”

“Eh. Whatever.”

“What’s the big deal about me finding a new woman?”

“It’s the nature of the beast. It’s our biological imperative, buddy. Tarzan find Jane. Tarzan take Jane. Tarzan make lots of little Tarzans.”

Logan took a deep breath. “What if Tarzan gets sick of Jane giving him the runaround?”

“So swing from a different rope.”

“Guess I am, then.” Scott’s eyebrows drew together.

“Come again?”

“I’m kinda seeing someone.” Logan braced himself. “And it ain’t anyone new. It’s been a little while now.”

“Bastard!” Scott crowed, socking him in one meaty shoulder. “Who is she?”

“That’s the thing-“

“Out with it!”

“His name’s Remy! Awright??”

Scott’s smile slowly dissolved. “Shit. You’re kidding. Tell me you’re not serious.”

“Scott…c’mon. Remember Walt?”

“Logan…c’mon. You can’t be heading down this road again. Walt…I didn’t think you were serious about him.”

“I lived with him.”

“Guys have roommates-“

“Don’t give me that shit. Not men my age. Walter was in love with me, or at least I thought he was. But it wasn’t the right kinda love, because he was too possessive. Not because he’s a man.” The nervous twisting in his gut gave way to frustration, then to mild annoyance.

“I guess I thought he was a phase.”

“Guess ya guessed wrong.”

“It’s just…weird, that’s all. So…were you always gonna try to find another guy, instead of a woman?”

“I can’t like both?”

“No! Wait…shit. I guess.”

“Wow.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There ain’t nothin’ t’say.”

“Remy…wait a minute. That’s the guy who showed up at the bar that night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hook up with him then?” Scott’s look of distaste belittled what Logan had shared with him.

“Uh-uh. It wasn’t like that. And whaddya take me for? I never did that shit with women either, fer cryin’ out loud. I don’t just take anyone home.” He didn’t admit that his third encounter with Remy yielded a night of passion. Scott rose from the floor and began putting away his tools. Logan felt the shift in his attitude and it rankled. “I might like both, Summers, but that doesn’t mean I’m easy.” Logan felt like he was defending his virtue, which was ridiculous. He was an adult, for fuck’s sake.

Scott shook his head. “I feel like an ass. Here I’ve been hoping you’d find someone you could really have something with-“

“Maybe I do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Guess I do. We’re just not on the same page.”

“You could have been more forthcoming.”

“You could act like it doesn’t matter.”

The silence between them was heavy as Logan, too, began putting away his tools. He radiated hurt, feeling it bathe him in flames and ugly prickles.

He had his back turned, but then Logan heard Scott fling down one of his wrenches with a loud clank on the concrete.

“Damn it…Logan, it doesn’t matter! All I care is that this shit doesn’t burn you! I hated fucking Walt!” That gave Logan pause.

“Wow.”

“There was always something I couldn’t pinpoint, but he just set off my asshole meter.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Summers.” But Logan’s shoulders relaxed.

“Do you want to get into this again?”

“There’s no ‘again.’ Rem’s different. He has a good heart. Ya met him. He won’t be shovin’ me through a wall any time soon.”

“What else does he even have to recommend him?” Logan could sense Scott shifting, opening up in small increments, more prepared to listen, and he felt relieved.

“He’s the whole package.”

“I can’t even imagine what that could be, for a guy.” Logan chuckled.

“Guess not. He’s a good cook, likes cars and keeps me warm.”

“Too much.” Scott held up his hands in surrender.

“Got it. Sorry.”

“So I can tell Lee to call off the matchmaking?”

“Roger that.”

“Well…good. That means she’ll quit nagging me, too. Lee’s got a whole slew of single friends that have yet to drop off the radar.”

“Tell ‘em I’m off the grid.”

“So, is Remy just…y’know? ‘Gay,’ gay?” Logan tsked. His smirk was mildly disgusted.

“’Gay,’ gay, he says… let’s assume he likes men now. Or at least he likes me. That’s all I care about.” Then Logan sobered. “He’s got a kid.” Scott blinked.

“You don’t do things halfway, do you? Big responsibility, dating someone with a kid. Or an ex.”

“Tell me about it.” Scott sighed, then closed the gap between them and clapped his shoulder roughly.

“Has he got any skeletons in the closet?”

That was a bigger, more important question. “That’s what I’m worried about, Scott. I think Rem’s in trouble.”

*

“Mr. LeBeau? Hi. I’m Doctor Samson.” Remy was up out of his seat like a shot at the sound of the smooth baritone hovering above him. 

“How is he?”

“Mind if I sit down.”

“Non. Tell me ‘bout m’uncle.”

“He’s out of danger. Your uncle Philippe went into cardiac arrest. He’s resting now.

“Merde…thank God. Aw, thank God. Thank you.” Remy sat back down, collapsing back into the waiting room chair as though his strings were cut. He rubbed his eyes and wasn’t surprised to find slick tears welling around his fingertips, dripping onto the leg of his jeans. His sob was a deep heave, strangled and full of anguish. He felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder, felt him kneeling before him, meeting him on his own level.

“He’s all right. He’s not up for a lot of conversation or excitement right now, but you can sit with him. It will help him to see you when he wakes up, okay?” Remy nodded without looking into his face. The doctor patted his knee and rose, exiting the bland waiting room. Remy’s low sobs were underscored by the drone of the television, set on a “Without a Trace” rerun that Remy didn’t have the heart to turn off. The family a few tables away were engaged in it as a distraction, awaiting the end of an emergency craniotomy on their son after he was carried away from a three-car wreck.

Once again, Remy sat in vigil at Philippe’s bedside, craving the sound of his familiar, scratchy Creole drawl, but he contented himself with the echo of his breathing beneath the oxygen mask.

*

“Ain’t a bad neighborhood.”

“Appearances ain’t all they’re cracked up ta be, kid. Can’t be that nice of a neighborhood if they let Beudreaux live here.” Kyle played with his knife in the passenger seat, releasing the blade with one clean click. He pared a rim of dirt from beneath his thumbnail with the tip. He nicked himself, swore, and then sucked the wound, more for the taste than to salve the pain. “Pansy, sittin’ there suckin’ yer thumb!”

“Nah…”

“Thumbsucker!” he jeered, blue eyes raking over his best runner. Victor enjoyed Kyle’s bland look; his face hardly twitched.

“Beats bein’ a cocksucker.” Victor’s smirk faded.

“Heh. Yeah. Funny guy.” 

Kyle smelled the change in Vic’s scent too late for it to do any good. Vic’s hand launched itself at him, clamping the scruff of his neck in an implacable grip. The blade clattered to the floor mat, and the interior of the Escalade was too dark to find it from where they parked in the shadows. Dusk had come and gone, and Julien had been gone too long.

FUCK! Pain exploded across the bridge of his nose as Vic crammed his face into the dash.

“Like that? Eh? Not bad fer a cocksucker like me, eh? Call me that again.”

“*keearrrgghhhh*…didn’t…call ya that, Vic…leggo…” Vic was amused at his struggle as he held his face against the hard, cold vinyl.

“Ya said it.”

“Didn’t…*kaff* mean that shit that way!”

“Sure ya didn’t. I ain’t got much patience fer anyone on my payroll sayin’ shit they say they don’t mean. I’m all about integrity, Gib. Manners don’t hurt, either. Ya don’t want me ta teach ya what yer mama left out, do ya?”

“She taught me manners!” he ground out on a yelp. Vic jerked him back by his thick, unruly ponytail, and Kyle’s eyes were wild, then shuttered against Vic’s gaze, which burned him.

“Didn’t get this far just on my pretty face. Or on suckin’ cock. Figuratively or literally. And that’s my fuckin’ business.” Kyle’s breaths heaved in and out of his rangy chest. “Understand?” A faint mist of blood sprayed from his nose as Kyle spoke, turning away to wipe his face on the back of his black, fingerless driving glove.

They continued to listen from across the street, roughly one block down from Bella’s modest house. Their sharp hearing picked up their words as though they were mere feet away. They saw Belladonna gesturing emphatically through the sheer curtains in the living room. Julien paced and cursed, throwing up his hands in frustration and anger. They saw him bend down briefly, then straighten up, holding a large cardboard box.

“Nice,” Vic muttered. “Don’tcha just love family?”

“Don’t miss mine,” Kyle confessed. He hadn’t since his mom turned him over to Social Services after his third jacked car. He’d had more practice since, thankfully, but old grudges died hard. His mom, on the other hand, died pretty easy, right next to his old man, thanks to a car bomb he’d rigged in the hatch of their station wagon. He couldn’t afford connections or loose ends; he reasoned she never loved him as much as his siblings, at any rate, so why quibble anymore? Now he was all about the score.

He rolled with Vic now. In for a penny, in for a pound. It had its perks.

And it was damned entertaining sometimes, like it was tonight. Julien was putting on a show, and Belladonna was screaming herself hoarse. She turned her back for a moment and called out plaintively to someone in the back of the house.

“Who the fuck’s Rene?”

“Guessin’ it’s her kid,” Vic shrugged.

“Hate the little bastards,” Kyle admitted.

“Ya look like the friggin’ Boogey Man.”

Look who’s talkin’, fucker. “Nah. I’m the monster under the bed. Boogey Man ain’t got half my cred.”

“No, you think you have cred.” But Victor chuckled under his breath, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He squinted at the dash, and he reached into the back for a moment. Victor produced a tub of Clorox wipes and shoved it at Gibney.

“Make yerself useful. Clean that up.” He nodded to the smear of his blood. Kyle sighed and did as he was told. He crumpled up the wipe and chucked it out the window. “Friggin’ litterbug.”

“He’s comin’ out,” Kyle hissed.

“Bout time.”

Julien stomped out onto the porch. He savagely threw his housekey back in through the front door behind him.

“Hope he’s got a copy.”

“She probably already changed the locks. Would’ve if she’s smart.”

“She’s got a dealer livin’ under her roof. She ain’t exactly a genius…” This was greeted by a low snort at the irony.

“Give him a minute. Then move.”

“Wait.”

An unfamiliar compact car drove up and appeared to be waiting for Julien to vacate the driveway so he could park.

“Who’s that?”

“Got me.”

Julien set down the box, nearly throwing it down onto the lawn. The car’s engine cut off and like a shot, a tall, familiar-looking young man got out and launched himself at Julien.

“Shit…”

“Nice. Gotta see this shit.”

The words both dark-haired men spat at each other in the dark were less important than the sheer venom between them, the blows thrown and the savage way they tore at each other. Victor winced at the crack of a fist against flesh from where he sat.

Belladonna came running out, crying out to them. “NON!”

“Frail’s French?”

“Nah. Creole, or some such shit…c’mon, like Julien, dumb ass, it is his sister!” Vic reminded him, slapping the back of his hand against Kyle’s chest.

Then, all three of them launched into French, which didn’t help matters any.

“Shoot,” Kyle complained. “It was gettin’ like Springer fer a sec.”

“Wait…why does that guy look familiar?”

“Dunno.”

“Somethin’…” Victor froze as Julien pushed him off, and he stumbled to his feet, more visible beneath the porch light.

Red eyes. And slightly long, chestnut hair surrounding a narrow face that smiled easily. Sure as hell wasn’t smiling now.

_“Vic…Logan.” He nodded to him. “And…?”_

_“Remy.”_

Remy. The runt’s boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Additional notes: I know a lot of language and themes in this chapter seem objectionable. My apologies, but in the meantime, the next two may continue on in the same vein. Be warned. I feel the dialogue fit the characters the way they have been represented in this story thus far.


	17. Don't Knock on my Door Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse. Trouble finds Remy after all of his running, and his time may have run out.

“Lay low,” Vic murmured gently. “Find yer own way back ta meet me.” Kyle gave him a pointed look. “Don’t bother with that thing.” He meant the knife. Kyle shrugged.

“No prob.” He slipped silently from the car; the door’s click was barely audible, and he disappeared into the trees as he moved down the block. Victor lit up a cigarette and cracked the window.

He focused once again on the scene playing out before him, but this time, Victor let himself absorb what they said.

“Stay away from my son,” Remy growled, spitting on the pavement to rid himself of the warm blood seeping out onto his lower lip.

“Fuck you,” Julien grunted as he picked up the box. “T’ink ya so much better den me? Huh?”

“Don’ start dat shit. I ain’ gonna hear dat, mec. Ya fucked up.”

“Non. You de one who fucked up,” Julien informed him. His face was black with rage, his dark eyes nearly swallowed up by his heavy, scowling brows.

“Julien, please, jus’ go,” Belladonna pleaded weakly from the porch. “Go.” She waved him away, and again, the gesture was halfhearted but resigned. “Ya can’t stay here.”

Julien glared at her, but there was something beseeching and vulnerable in his posture and the set of his mouth. He seemed to deflate before he stormed off. He opened the passenger door of his car and slammed the box onto the seat, not caring about its contents. Bella hurried back inside and carried another box outside, but he stopped her.

“Fuck dat. Fuck you. Jus’ leave ‘em outside, I’ll come back an’ get ‘em!”

“Shut de fuck up! C'est votre plus jeune soeur!”* Remy roared. “Ya don’ get ta talk ta her dat way, motherfucker!”

“FUCK YOU!” he railed. Julien hocked up a glob of spit and released it in Remy’s direction. Remy followed Bella into the house and noticed the remaining boxes. He hurried to grab them, shouldering past his ex.

“Watch it!” she hissed.

“Get outta de way, Belle. Sorry,” he muttered. Remy dropped the box out front and made two more trips to get the rest, kicking and shoving them toward the steps.

“Asshole. T’ink yer gonna mess wit’ my shit?” Julien said more to himself than to Remy as he jerked open his door and lunged inside the car. His slam was loud enough to be heard down the block, no different from every word shouted among the three of them within the past fifteen minutes. “T’ink ya gotta gang up on me, huh? T’ink yer so bad, mec? Grew a pair’a balls jus’ ‘cuz Bella’s standin’ dere?” Remembered shame pricked Remy as his past trangressions with his brother in law came back into too sharp, painful focus. “Gonna pay, asshole.” He punched the key into the ignition and the engine made a loud, protesting thunk before it roared to life. Julien revved the gas three times before he put it into gear, tearing down the residential street. Remy tsked in disgust as he heard Julien’s loud music drifting back toward them, an additional demand that they fuck off.

Remy sighed and wandered back into the house. He rubbed his jaw, annoyed at the scratch of stubble along his skin. He knew he looked like hell.

“Ya look like death warmed over,” Bella mused weakly. Her voice was hoarse and her blue eyes were tired.

“Shit…t’anks a bunch.”

“Siddown.” She nodded to the couch, and Remy obeyed reluctantly, until a low sound in the back hall caught his attention.

“Papa?”

“Petit,” he murmured, his voice full of regret. He hated himself. Rene’s tender ears heard everything, and he could tell by the glimmer of tears in his eyes that it broke his heart. Remy automatically held out his arms and began to close the gap between himself and his son. Rene’s voice broke and dragged itself into a long, shrill sob.

“S-scared,” he whimpered into Remy’s shirt. His breathing kept hitching, and he kept making little hiccupping noises each time that he tried to speak. “You…*…were…fi-fightin-ing, Pa…*…Papa,” he insisted. More hot tears drenched Remy’s tee, and he felt them wet his chest. Rene’s sorrow literally seeped into him a drop at a time.

“It wuz wrong, Papa was wrong when he did dat, an’ said what he said,” Remy replied in supplication. “Sorry, petit. Papa’s so sorry. Got real angry at Oncle.”

“H-he’s…he’s not…comin’ back?”

“Petit…ssshh…”

“He’s going away, forever?” he wailed. 

“Dieu,” Remy breathed. Bella drifted over protectively and sheltered her son’s back, stroking his soft hair. It was one of the only times in recent years that they had stood in a tight little knot, Remy and Belladonna standing united as parents instead of engaging in backbiting and shouting matches. Rene’s back was still heaving beneath Remy’s hands, even as Bella made low crooning sounds and blew out long, rhythmic shushes through her lips.

“Oncle Julien’s gotta leave, petit. It ain’ anyt’in’ you’ve done,” Bella began. “He got into some trouble. He needs t’take care of it. Dere’s somet’in’ wrong wit’ Oncle right now. We can’t help ‘im wit’ it anymore.”

“No! Don’-don’t w-want ‘im to gooooooo!” Remy slowly rocked him and gently covered his son’s ear with his palm, blocking out some of the sound in the room and isolating his heartbeat for him to hear alone, something that used to help soothe him through night frights when he was small. The gesture also blanketed the sound of his son’s wails so he wouldn’t make himself more upset.

“Oncle Ju-Julien’s never coming…back, a-and Oncle Philippe’s gonna die, an-and…” he stammered out. Remy paled.

“Non. Philippe’s jus’ restin’, petit. He don’ feel too good, but de doctors are helpin’ ‘im get well.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Bella said. “Rene, yer gettin’ some milk. Settle down fer Papa.”

Remy carried his son with some difficulty to the couch and let him rest on his lap, skinny arms wrapped tightly around Remy’s neck.

“You were…fighting,” Rene accused.

“Oui. Desole, petit. Grownups ain’ s’posed ta fight.”

“Like at my party.”

“Like at your party. Yer right, chere. Dat time, Papa wuz so worried ‘bout you an’ where you were, but dat don’ make it right, eit’er.”

Rene’s sobs tapered off into sniffles by the time Belladonna came out of the kitchen with two hot mugs in her hands. She set down Remy’s coffee and pushed the cup of warm milk at him to give their son. Remy coaxed him to drink some and his nose picked up a hint of cinnamon and sugar.

“Oncle got mixed up in some bad t’ings, Rene,” Remy told him. “T’ings dat ain’t good for lil’ boys ta be around.”

“Okay,” he agreed, nodding into Remy’s neck. He managed to get him to finish half the cup, and Remy didn’t think he would manage to leave the house for a while, with his son in this state.

But he was wrong. When he headed back to Rene’s room, once again his own, now, with Julien’s things missing from it, he laid down with him and coaxed him to sleep. Within ten minutes he was out like a light. Remy waited until his son’s grip on him was perfectly limp before tucking his little arms beneath the covers and wrapping them around his stuffed doll. He eased himself from the bed, trying not to let the mattress dip too far, and Remy tiptoed out, turning on his son’s night light before he cracked the door shut by mere centimeters. He wanted to be able to hear Rene, but didn’t want his son to hear his talk with his mother.

Remy sighed heavily as he sunk into the couch.

“Dat sucked,” he groaned.

“No shit,” she agreed, sipping on her own cup of coffee. She eyed him wearily, looking like she needed to go to bed herself. “How’s Philippe?”

“Had an episode. Almost lost him. His heart.”

“Oh, no,” she said, wincing. “M’sorry. He okay?”

“Barely. Gon’ head back over tonight. I’ll give ya de room number, if ya wanna call. Can’t bring Rene, though. He’s in trauma ICU, dey don’ allow kids under thirteen.”

“Shit. Okay. I might stop by t’check on ‘im when Rene’s in school.”

“Dat’s fine.”

“Need me t’bring ‘im anyt’in?”

“Non.”

Now came the hard part.

“Bella, dis had Julien’s mark on it. M’sure of it.” Her hand froze in the act of lifting her cup to her lips. She set it down with a low thunk.

“De hell you say!”

“Bella…he knows his way into de shop.”

“Dat don’ mean anyt’in’!” she hissed.

“Bella…why didn’ ya tell me Julien used my car?”

“What?” She paused in her building tirade at his words.

“Why? I know he used my car. Smelled de pot. When were ya gonna tell me, Bella?”

All of the anger in her eyes faded. “Remy…I didn’t know he wuz even takin’ it til de next mornin’. Smelled de shit myself. Knew ya’d be mad.”

“Course I’d be mad. Bella…he took it de same night dat de shop was ripped off de first time.” 

Her face paled.

“Remy…dat’s a coincidence. Don’ pin dat on mon frere.”

“Gimme one reason why Remy shouldn’t. Ain’ no one else in my mind who would’ve been so bold.”

Her heart raced and he could see her mentally discarding arguments one after the other, even as her body language defied Remy.

“Ya can’t make an assumption like dat,” she finally said. 

“Oncle said he remembers two men. I t’ink he was tryin’ ta tell me one of ‘em was Julien. He said his name. Didn’t say in so many words dat it wuz him, but he gave me his name.”

Her face crumpled, and he watched with regret and even a little fear as Belladonna fell apart. “Non,” she mewled. “Non…pour quoi…pour quoi…Julien…Julien…”

She knew his words rung true. And it killed her.

Remy stood quietly and crossed the room. “Belle. C’mere.” He ignored her hands as they tried to push and slap him away, and Remy pulled her into his arms as he knelt by her side. He rocked her as he had Rene; the difference was, he didn’t need any explanations or white lies this time. His embrace was an apology, free of I-told-you-sos or accusations.

Remy helped Belladonna lock up the house minutes later. He paused in the hallway as she brushed her teeth, the bathroom light the only illumination.

“Wuz dat ev’ryt’in? Ya packed up all his shit?”

“Oui. Ev’ry’tin’ I could find.”

“Mind if I take a look around?” She spit out the paste and rinsed her mouth.

“Whaddya t’ink yer gonna find, chere?”

“Gotta know if dere’s somet’in’ I’m missin’.” She sighed.

“Don’ wake up Rene.”

He checked the bedroom, searching the dresser and toy box, then Rene’s small desk. Remy carefully moved aside his son’s pile of shoes and some forgotten toys in the closet. Remy pulled a plastic set of drawers away from the wall and checked behind it, feeling around.

His hand found a small, thick envelope. He tugged it out and took it out into the hall. Belladonna watched him open it; it wasn’t sealed.

He spread out several white and yellow copies of receipts, mostly machine-printed, but some of them were handwritten for custom-order parts.

“Why’s he got receipts?” she muttered, confused as he sifted through them.

“Credit receipts. Can get the card numbers on ‘em and use ‘em on de phone, online, don’ matter.”

“Shit.”

“Dese were missin’ from de shop.” He pointed to the tiny print that read “Thank you for shopping LeBeau and Son’s for all your auto and racing needs” on the bottom of each.

*

 

Her goodbye was terse. She heard him lock the door on his way out and Remy was glad to get some fresh air and be alone with his thoughts. He scrubbed his face with his palm and craved a shower.

And despite the late hour, he wanted to talk to Logan. But Remy knew he had more pressing matters, namely putting in a call to the police station and letting him know what he found.

But it nagged him, the urge to unburden himself to Logan, and to divulge everything between him and Julien and to do away with all of his secrets. He didn’t want to hide anything from him anymore, not his own foolishness and complacence in allowing himself to live with a criminal, let alone become physically involved for so long. 

Remy had watched from the sidelines too long while his brother in law let a long string of clients in and out of their home. He watched him use his wife, and let him come between them, and for what? 

He nearly lost his son. Twice. Remy hated himself for it. Shame washed over him as he keyed his way into his car.

He paused a moment, leaning against the open door as he took out his cell. He speed-dialed Logan’s number, watching the “Dialing…” message with impatience. He wasn’t picking up.

“Chere,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece. “Missed ya. Miss you. Gonna be at the de hospital in a while. I’ll call you. Dey don’ wan’ cell phones in de rooms ‘cuz of de equipment.” His fingers tightened around the small handset. “Miss you,” he repeated, clapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket. With a sigh, he ducked into the car.

His back barely hit the cool upholstery when a heavy, calloused hand clapped itself over his mouth. Remy’s heart leapt into his throat, and his red eyes grew round with terror as they swung to the rearview mirror. 

An icy blue gaze met his, and foul breath heavy with cigarette smoke bathed his ear. “Drive, asshole.”

The cool metal pressed against his temple brooked no argument. Remy fumbled with his keys and managed to shove the correct one into the ignition. The car revved slowly to life, and he automatically took the first right at the end of the block.

“Freeway,” his passenger rasped, no longer whispering. “Don’t try anything.”

“Non,” Remy promised. His voice was hoarse and tense. 

Kyle leaned back, but he kept the Glock trained on him. He casually raised his arm and laid it over the top of the bench seat in back, musing.

“Ya know ya know too much, right?” Remy said nothing. “Huh? Whatsamatter, cat got yer tongue?” 

Remy sickened more by the minute, and a rash of cold sweat broke out over his chest. The freeway. What if he was trying to lead him out of town to kill him?

An inkling of who this man could be suddenly penetrated his terror.

“Ya don’t hide much from the neighbors, do ya? Shit, I thought I had drama from my old lady, but you guys made me wish I had popcorn.”

“Jus’ take de car, if ya wan’ it. Please.”

“Please, nuthin’. It ain’t the car that I want, Bright Eyes. Damn, they look spooky in the dark, ya know that?” He ground the tip of his Glock against his scalp more firmly. “Keep ‘em front, wise guy.” Remy’s stomach twisted, threatening more pressure against his bowels. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

“Hurry up,” Kyle barked. “Don’t drag yer feet.”

“Where we goin’?”

“Ya ain’t gonna hafta worry about that.”

I kissed my son goodnight. The thought penetrated Remy’s frantic jumble clearly. It was all he had to hold on to.

Remy’s hope flagged and died a little more with each green light they hit. 

“Turn on the radio, if yer gonna be so quiet,” his captor ordered. With a shaking hand, Remy clicked on the volume knob. It was the same old rock station that Logan favored, and the gruff, smug man in the back seat was satisfied with it.

“Def Leppard. That’s some good shit,” he muttered. “Used ta fuck in my basement ta this in high school.” If Remy weren’t so petrified, he would have laughed.

He needed to get out of the car. If he headed out onto the freeway, he’d never be seen again. But if he stopped, what was to keep him from getting shot, anyway?

Remy took a hope-to-heaven chance and jerked the gearshift into park at the next light.

“What the fuck…?!” Kyle was fast, launching himself at the back of Remy’s neck, but Remy was faster. He’d already undone the seatbelt as they drove, and it snapped back into the holster as he shouldered his way out of the car, right into traffic.

He’d bought himself precious minutes. Remy threw himself into a breathless, dead run, ignoring the blare of car horns behind him. A station wagon skidded to a halt at the crosswalk as he interrupted its right turn on red.

Julien’s man would have to make an illegal U-turn to catch up with him once he made his way into the driver’s seat. But the streets in this neighborhood were poorly lit, and it was six blocks to the nearest open store. He heard the screech of tires…

His own car bore down on him. Remy reached into his pocket and ducked into a narrow alley.

He fumbled with the buttons, trying to dial nine-one-one. He hid behind a noxious dumpster, trying not to wretch at the stench of beer bottles and banana peels.

He heard his car door slam and contemplated the alley. He didn’t know where the end of it led, or if he’d make it onto the next open street in time.

“Know yer back here, dumb ass,” a rough voice called out. “Ya gotta make this hard, huh?”

His heart pounded in his chest. If he dialed nine-one-one, he had a chance…

“Come out, come out, wherever ya are…”

His voice sounded too close. The end of the alley was sounding better and better.

Remy made up his mind and ran. A stitch gathered in his side and burned. Kyle was hot on his heels. His feet splashed through a fetid puddle, wetting his legs in icy water. He didn’t know how sharp a shot the rangy blond was in pursuit, but he didn’t want to find out.

He gripped his phone so hard that his sweaty thumb hit the menu button. All Remy heard were his own harsh breaths and the pounding of two sets of feet, the ones behind him closing in on him.

“H’lo? This is Logan?”

Remy was so surprised that he misstepped, and his ankle twisted painfully before he went down. He bit his tongue, tasting blood, and he scrambled to get up.

“Chere,” he grunted out between gasps. “Chere…s’me…”

“ Rem? Where are ya?”

He never answered him. Remy felt something hard and cold slam into his skull. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and everything went black.

“Remy? Rem! REM! You there?”

Kyle chuckled at the echo of a confused, frantic voice as he clapped Remy’s phone shut, tucking it into his own pocket. He considered throwing it away, but his contact list might prove useful.

He would eventually regret it.


	18. Ya Don't Wanna Owe Mw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gotta love family, eh?” Vic sat back and lit his cigar; his cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the sweet poison into his lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t like violence, this might not be your chapter.

Within minutes, Logan was in his truck, thankful that she had more than half a tank of gas. He had flung on his clothes from that day, wrinkles, sweat and all.

Remy… The night was cold, but the nuisance of the frigid air kept him wide awake and alert. Logan was running on all six cylinders, and he never had so much to lose. 

Google was a good thing. Remy had emailed him his GPS location a while back, and both men’s cell phones were on the same network provider. According to the satellite feed, Remy and his cell were traveling due north on highway five. He didn’t dare call him again, even though he needed more details about where he was headed. Where he was being taken.

The streets were slightly familiar; Logan remembered riding along that strip when he followed Remy to Bella’s house to retrieve some of Rene’s things that awful night. 

Belladonna… He realized with bitter frustration that she would need to know what happened to Remy. Then he wondered, what if she did know? Adrenaline was making him lose focus, making him torn between continuing to track Remy or just going straight to the horse’s mouth and talking to his ex. 

His GPS made up his mind for him. There was an old time signature showing where Remy had been the last time he dialed Logan’s number. Logan passed a poorly lit convenience store and gas station and cruised through the next two stoplights.

His GPS beeped; he’d overshot his turn. Logan banged an illegal U-turn, heedless of whether he would get caught. His highbeams caught slick, black skidmarks along the asphalt, as though someone else had taken the same route he had, at a breakneck speed. The buildings along this side of the road were derelict, more so than the rest two blocks back. Logan grew more uncomfortable as he noticed the long gaps between street lamps. Remy would have had to find his way in almost complete darkness. Unease twisted his gut. Rem, please be okay. Hold on.

The mechanical sounding voice of his GPS told him to turn in to an abandoned alley, overgrown with clumps of weeds. The stagnant reek of the dumpster wrinkled his nose as he rolled down his window and parked at the curb. Logan had to focus past it, and it was time to put his gift to work. He inhaled deeply, taking in the miasma of scents, mentally discarding the ones that didn’t matter to him.

Each scent had its own temperature when he relied on his enhanced sense of smell. Much like wearing infrared goggles, Logan’s olfactory system could pick out “hot spots” of smells that were completely organic in nature, and he could also tell how old the source of the smell was, how long of a chance it had to degrade or evaporate.

Logan picked up Remy’s signature amidst the odors and stale smell of moldy, weathered buildings and concrete. It was still warm, but less discernibly, Logan caught another human footprint in the alley. Roughly the same age, and he was a smoker. Logan inhaled sharp bursts of the scents, then stopped in the alley. He closed his eyes and extended his awareness of the shapes and space around him, orienting himself.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision adjusted itself, sharpening to accommodate the darkness and to pick up details he might have missed before. Such as footprints.

Two people, both tall men, he guessed. The footfalls were deep and blurred, like the first man had skidded, no doubt from a dead run. The second set of prints were more closely spaced; perhaps the pursuer had shorter legs, or at any rate, a quicker stride. Logan growled low in his throat as he followed the trail down to the back of the alley. There was a wire-link fence around the bend. Remy might have tried to circumvent it, or to climb over it, but the trail changed by a back stoop.

One set of footsteps, moving slower, making a heavy imprint in the dirt. Two long furrows in the ground, like someone had been carried or dragged.

Sonofabitch knocked Remy unconscious, or worse. It didn’t bear contemplating. Logan needed action, not worst case scenarios. He doubled back and found what he was hoping for once he reached the clearing: another set of tire tracks.

They were headed north. Logan mulled his next destination carefully as he keyed the ignition, slamming the door shut as he shifted into drive and peeled out of the lot. He needed to hit the freeway. No idiot in their right mind would kidnap a man and keep him within city limits.

But Logan prayed that the next time he saw Remy, that it wouldn’t be his body. Cold fingers squeezed his chest.

*

Remy smacked sore, dry lips as he awoke, opening blurry eyes in what he guessed was a darkened room. It smelled like mildew, gunpowder and tobacco. His scalp tightened and every muscle in his body tensed. That’s when he noticed that his hands were bound at the wrist behind him. The stricture of a blindfold grazed his cheeks.

It took all he had not to groan in pain; Remy expanded his spatial awareness to determine how big the room was and how close it was to an exterior wall of the building. The floor beneath him was unyielding concrete. Remy tested his bonds; they were tight, restricting blood flow into his fingers, and the rope was unforgiving, fraying nylon.

His head throbbed, disorienting him. Remy’s ears picked the muffled sounds of men’s feet and furtive voices. Some of the accents were vague, perhaps Latino. Something scraped across the floor outside the door, and he heard what sounded like a forklift lowering its arm to unload its cargo. 

The scuffling of feet grew closer, and Remy panicked. He wondered whether it would be prudent to play possum-

The option was torn from his hands. The door banged open, bouncing off the wall and making his heart skip and body jerk in surprise. A harsh light was flicked on, and he was grateful that he was blindfolded; its glare would aggravate the pounding in his skull.

“Up,” a familiar voice barked. “Up an’ at ‘em, princess. Don’t play dumb. I know yer awake.” A foot savagely kicked his hip, sending pain exploding through his flesh. Remy knew it would leave behind a bruise. He instinctively squirmed away from the man looming above him, but rough fingers tangled in his hair and yanked, threatening to tear it out by the roots and goading him to stumble to his feet. His captor jerked him out the door, and a draft of cold air rushed over his arms, raising goosebumps. They’d taken his sweater and shoes; he was garbed in only his black ribbed wifebeater and dark jeans. Remy’s phone and wallet were missing from his pockets.

He was a sitting duck.

They lead him stumbling down a corridor that felt narrow; the sounds of tools scraping against metal grew louder, and this time he also smelled motor oil and axle grease. His guardian tugged him through another door, not caring that he buffeted him against the frame, scraping up his shoulder. Remy grunted in discomfort but didn’t cry out. “Siddown!” the voice at his side snapped, and he found himself shoved into a wheeled chair that rolled back a few inches with the momentum. He struggled and was struck again for his efforts. “Dumb ass!” To his horror, Remy heard the sound of ripping tape, someone unrolling long wads of it, and sure enough, he was bound against the cold vinyl and metal chair. Panic made his pulse throb in his neck, and Remy broke out into another cold sweat.

“That didn’t take long.”

“Ya weren’t the one waitin’ on him ta come outta his old lady’s house,” muttered the voice of Remy’s captor. “Got real borin’ after a while.”

“Take yer Ritalin and chill the fuck out, Gib.” The newcomer’s voice reminded Remy of someone, and this one was deeper and more gravelly, seeming to come from a physically larger man. “Gotta hand it to ya,” he remarked, addressing Remy this time, “yer old lady’s got a pair of vocal cords on her, huh? She like that when ya fuck? I got better ears than most people, but I coulda heard yer old lady comin’ down ten city blocks. Save the drama fer yer mama, that’s what we used ta say back in the day. Gotta keep some of that shit behind closed doors, eh?” Remy was silent. “But that’s right. Ya don’t fuck anymore. Do ya. Not her.” Remy’s cheeks flushed hotly beneath the blindfold. “Ya like ‘em rough an’ quiet, don’tcha?” Remy heard the low click of a lighter and smelled the sharp tang of butane in the tiny interior of the office. It put him on edge; there was a heavy smell of sawdust in the air, coupled with the stench of motor oil and gunpowder. One stray spark could send the whole building up in a fireball; it galled Remy that it was the least of his worries. “Someone ta boss ya around. I know who lights yer fire, bub. Saw ya with the runt. Ain’t much on the eyes, is he? Don’t matter if he can tap that ass, though.”

The voice was looming over him now, having closed the gap between them. Blunt fingernails scraped Remy’s cheekbones as the blindfold was tugged off. Remy’s ruby eyes drooped with fatique and swam as they peered up, up, up into the icy blue ones that stared out from a cruel, rugged face.

“We got a problem, though. Yer other boyfriend, here, Jul…he ain’t that smart. Ya probably figured that out by now. I always told him not ta shit where ya eat. I’m just guessin’ at what’s goin’ on with you an’ him, Bright Eyes. Gotta lotta stuff bottled up if ya feel like ya hafta kick someone’s ass in the front yard. I bailed him out the last time the two of ya got into it. That ain’t somethin’ I just do any ol’ time, fer just any of my people. Ya gotta rate. Most days, Jul does that.” Victor cradled Remy’s jaw in his large palm with surprising gentleness, but Remy still winced, flinching back at his touch. “Yer a pretty piece of ass. It’s a fuckin’ shame.” He lightly slapped his cheek and moved back, barely sitting against the edge of the desk. He stretched out long, muscular legs and crossed them at the ankles, musing. “Damn shame,” he repeated.

Kyle watched the conversation with interest; the corner of his mouth twitched whenever Victor said something that amused him. “Ain’t got nothin’ ta say? You shy?” Vic shrugged his shoulder up and sniffed himself. “Do I offend?” Victor sighed. “It ain’t gonna make a difference. Bein’ quiet. It ain’t gonna matter a fuckin’ bit. Ya know too much. Ya’ve seen too much. Dead men are the only ones who tell no tales, bub; they’re the only ones ya can count on not ta say shit.” Victor’s eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips around his cigar. He sucked hungrily on it, practically nursing it, and the embers at its tip glowed an angry orange in response. “I know what yer thinkin’. And yer wrong. No one’s as quiet as they think they can be. Someone always leans on ‘em. Folks get scared. They wanna protect themselves.” He nodded to Kyle. “Ain’t that right, Wild Child?”

“Right. Hell, yeah.” Victor hadn’t invited him to smoke with him. Kyle contented himself with digging out a pouch from his can of Skoal Bandits and tucked it inside his cheek.

“Shit just slips out,” Victor shrugged, letting a hint of a smile toy with his lips. “It don’t take much.” 

He lunged to his feet and his hand darted out before Remy could blink. Remy smelled the acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair as Victor stabbed his cigar into the side of his neck, sending blinding pain ripping along his nerve endings. “AAAGGGGHH…!! NNNNGG…” He fought against the need to scream and his skin was stretched taut over his jaw, making the veins stand out in stark relief. Victor knotted his fingers in Remy’s hair to hold him immobile and drilled the stub into the wound. The ashes dropped onto his tank top, staining it in black-gray smears. Tears leaked from the corner of his right eye as he continued to lean away as far from Victor as possible. 

“Nice. I like this one. Thinks he’s got stones,” he guffawed.

“Big ones,” Kyle agreed, sucking on the pouch and spitting a stream of foul juice into the corner.

“Man. What’m I gonna do with ya?” Victor shook his long blond mane and sighed. He moved back behind the desk and plunked himself back in the cracked leather executive’s chair. “Jul ain’t much of a brother in law, eh?” He kicked his feet up onto the desk, showing Remy the soles of his battered snakeskin boots as he crossed his ankles again. “Gotta love family, eh?” Vic sat back and lit himself a fresh cigar; his cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the sweet poison into his lungs. 

*

The work inside the warehouse was slowing down to the sounds of metal parts scraping the insides of wooden crates as they were prepared for shipment. Several voices rose in complaint as someone cut off the radio, doing away with the throbbing acid rock pumping through the production floor.

Julien leaned back against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. His thin denim jacket offered little protection against the drafty building’s chill. Julien huddled closer to the tiny space heater and lit himself a cigarette. He’d worked hard to wrap up Vic’s “project” for him, lying to himself that he’d given Victor his money’s worth in the bail he’d put up. But once Victor owned you, he owned you.

Julien leaned up from the wall and began to pace, restlessness making him itch. Victor said his “clients” were en route to pick up their parts, but it was his second meeting that had him on edge, particularly for the merchandise Victor was furnishing them.

Alejandro Montoya was no one to fuck with. His handle on the streets was “El Aguila,” and he had a mean tattoo splashed across his back of the eagle from the Mexican flag strangling a snake from its talons, foam and gore dripping from its mouth. All those in the know didn’t look his way when his Lexus rolled down the strip; you didn’t want to be caught looking when one of his tinted windows rolled down, whether he wanted a word with you or his Glock was pointed your way. He was mercurial and unpredictable, and at twenty-six, he was one of the oldest members of the Heroes Poderosos. A thriving gun and protection racket made him one of the richest and most paranoid contacts in Victor’s Rolodex.

Victor kept his friends close and his friends’ enemies closer if their money was the right color. In the back room, Victor was already closing the deal with Hector Ayala, the “White Tiger” to his crew. They planned to move the parts quickly and distribute them far and wide, quick, easy, dirty money. The Mutantes Furiosos rolled large and hard, multiplying in ranks as quickly as you took them out; there was strength in numbers and in word of mouth, if no one killed you for opening yours. Hector and Alex Montoya roomed together at the same detention center as minors, but there was no love lost once they were out and went separate ways. Cats and birds didn’t mix.

Julien just had a bad feeling that he couldn’t shake loose. The fight with Remy and his sister left him raw, and he still tasted the raw hatred in his mouth, like bile. Without Bella, his safety net was gone. He had no roof over his head and no one to speak for him if the shit hit the fan again, or worse, if he conveniently disappeared. He knew it was part of the cost of rolling with Victor Creed. If you stayed alive long enough to get rich, that also meant being lonely.

A rough hand reached out and goosed him viciously in the side, and Julien yelped, twisting and jerking away from the contact. He spun on Kyle, who grinned.

“Jumpy shit, aintcha?”

“Fucker,” Julien spat, retrieving the cigarette he’d dropped in surprise. “They almost done?”

“Pfft. What’s yer hurry?” He spat another wad of tobacco foam and wiped his bottom lip with his index knuckle. “Yeah, though, they’re almost done in there. Be glad yer out here instead of back there with yer girlfriend.”

“What’re ya goin’ on about? Julien ain’ got no girlfriend!”

“No? Ain’t the impression I got when he was kickin’ yer ass across the front yard, man! That fight was sweet! He might be pretty, but he don’t hit like a girl!” Julien went pale.

“What’d ya do? C’mon, man, what’d ya DO?”

“Brought ya a friend ta play with so ya don’t get lonely.” Julien plowed his hand through his hair and began to pace until Kyle stopped him. “Hey…HEY! Listen ta me, dumb ass. Ya know what happens when ya do sloppy work. Did ya think we were just gonna let anyone who knows ya were in that store walk the streets? Unless Vic finds some other use for him, that’s it; no one’s even gonna be able ta ID ‘im with his dental records. Only reason yer here right now,” he said pointedly, jabbing him in the chest with blunt fingertips, “is because yer useful. Fer now.” Julien’s bowels twisted and he broke out in to a cold sweat. His hand shook as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Dat’s fine.” He turned away and feigned interest in the men across the floor sweeping up the stray sawdust and shavings littering the concrete. Kyle huffed and spat.

Kyle grew bored with Julien’s tense pacing and near silence and he decided to get some air. He headed outside and tossed out the used up Bandit in favor of a Camel. His hand bumped up against something hard and cold, and Kyle emptied his pocket, finding the forgotten cell phone. He made a thoughtful noise in his throat and opened it up, unimpressed with the low budget gadget whose buttons had slightly worn numbers. He clicked it on, and the screen flashed a photo of a young boy smiling at the taker; Kyle assumed it was Remy’s kid from the strong resemblance, even if he didn’t have those freaky, scary eyes. Kyle scanned through the menu and found the Internet icon, deciding to entertain himself by checking the scores.

Down the road, Logan watched his phone with more attention than the road, not caring that it was illegal. His GPS finally alerted him that Remy’s phone was in use; he almost didn’t believe his eyes.

“That’s it, you bastards,” he muttered. “Come ta daddy.” Logan continued down two miles and took the next exit. The GPS warned Logan in its tinny mechanical tones that some of the roads on the route might be unknown or the names might have changed. He was fine with that.

*

Alex Montoya watched members of Hector’s crew wander up the road toward the warehouse with his highbeams turned off. He took a hungry drag of his cigarette and flicked the ashes out the window. Beside him, a striking, dark-skinned Puerto Rican girl cracked her gum and picked at a chip in her manicure.

“This is bullshit. Tell Vic to get their asses outta there.”

“Callate, cavrona.” She narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. “Calmate,” he amended, puckering his lips at her from across the console. She rolled her eyes and made a “talk to the hand” gesture, sighing.

“I’m bored. You said we were going out after this.”

“Tu tienes mi promesa, mami. Chill the fuck out. We’re going out. Once these pendejos leave, we see Vic, we get my guns, and we leave. Just give him a few more minutes.”

“It’s been a ‘few more minutes,’” she muttered. Angel Salvadore toyed with the gold cross pendant around her neck that her mami gave her for her First Communion, knowing she mourned the little girl she used to be. Beneath her black leather jacket, Angel’s lithe back was grafitti’ed in elaborate black ink; an Aztec dancer with her wings spread wide stared out proudly from between her shoulder blades, complementing Alejandro’s. He leaned over the console, tugging on her wrist. She played tug of war with it before leaning reluctantly toward him and accepting his kiss.

She grimaced unprettily as she caught sight of a familiar woman getting out of a black Escalade up ahead. “Hell, no. Uh-uh. She don’t get to go in there while I sit on my ass out here. That’s bullshit.”

“Easy, mami.”

“I hate her.”

“I know that. Chill the fuck out.” The woman wore red unapologetically, from head to toe, begging either to be manhandled in bed or shot in the street. Hector’s girlfriend, Maria Callasantos, was well known and hated within a broad radius. Her nickname was “Feral” due to her viciously long nails and the slitted pupil contact lenses she favored; in some neighborhoods, it was rumored that they were her real eyes. She moved like a stray cat, rangy and sleek, able to sneak up on you before you even knew she was breathing down your neck.

She felt their eyes on her and smirked, turning and walking away with a switch.

“Puta!” Angel spat.

Once again, cats and birds didn’t mix. Maria sighed gustily as she joined Hector inside, tracking him down in the back room. Her heels clacked and echoed against the concrete floors. She made a face and fanned the air, disgusted by the scent of cigar smoke. “Where’s the bathroom in this place? I’ve gotta piss.”

“Be a lady,” he chided her, stroking the small of her back through her skimpy red dress. She purred and ran the tip of her fingernail down his jaw. Maria turned to Victor and raised her brow.

“Gotta powder my nose?” she inquired. He nodded toward the door.

“Down the hall. Three doors down on the left.”

“Peachy.” Hector made a low “mmmm” in his throat and swatted her rump on her way out. She didn’t even flinch. Victor grunted.

“Old lady looks good, man.”

“She’s still useful.”

“Guess she’s gotta be. Don’t let her linger too long in the john. Or wander around. Got it?”

“Yeah. We’re cool, man.”

The problem with cats was that they were curious…

Maria wandered down the corridor, slipping off her five-inch, red patent leather sandals and padding soundlessly to each door, peering around the edge of each frame.

She sniffed, drawing in a deep, quiet draught of the stale air. She picked up a human scent and mentally catalogued its owner. Young. Male. Healthy, but injured; she caught the tang of fresh blood and sweat. Fear. That was the strongest odor, and it went straight to her head. Maria always knew Vic was a crooked bastard. He picked one helluva night to take what this guy owed out of him while he was taking perfectly good money from Hector’s crew, not to mention those Poderoso pussies down the road. Maria tsked and gently nudged open the door.

“Awww, mijo,” she purred, eyeing the bound, blindfolded man with something akin to pity. He was gagged, and his head tipped limply to the side. She couldn’t tell if he was resting or just too tired or injured to hold it up. But he jerked at the sound of her voice. She sauntered up to him and stood between his spread knees, too close for propriety. She tipped up his jaw with the very tip of her talon, tapping the tip of his nose playfully. “Penny for your thoughts, papi. You the strong, silent type?” she quipped. He grunted and moaned from beneath the duct tape. “We ain’t gonna have much of a talk around that.” She dug her nails beneath the edge of silver tape and snatched it back, tearing it from his skin. Remy smothered a yell. “Callate!” she hissed.

“Merde,” he hissed under his breath. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Who…who are ya?”

“Maria,” she informed him haughtily, rolling the ‘r’. “Ain’t much else to know. I ain’t someone ya fuck with. Neither’s my man. He’s out there talkin’ ta Vic. What’d you do ta piss him off?” Remy shook his head. “What? You can tell me. I ain’t loyal to that bastard.”

“Please…help me. Ya don’ know me, chere…”

“Oooh. What is that shit, French?”

“Oui,” he said weakly.

“Mind if I take this off?” she asked before her nails inched their way beneath his blindfold. She tugged it off. “I can’t stand when I can’t see someone’s eyes, I hate it when Hector wears his…shades…shit,” she finished, mouth agape. “Damn.” She lightly stroked his cheek and stared into eyes that God couldn’t have made, staring out from one of the handsomest faces she’d ever seen. “You’re too pretty to mess up,” she accused. “What’d you do to make him rough you up, huh?”

“Don’ sound like ya care much, chere.”

“Eh. You’re right. What’d you do, if you were me? You start caring, and you end up with a knife in your back, floating face down somewhere and so torn up your own mother can’t recognize you. Can’t be a player if you can’t handle the game, homes. So I’m sorry, papi. Can’t do anything for you.” She moved to replace the blindfold.

His eyes glowed in the darkness, pupils dilating, and she was drawn into their luminous intensity as he spoke.

“Remy could take ya outta here, chere, if ya help ‘im outta dis mess. Nice lookin’ petit like you, oughta be shown off, non?” Maria giggled, a sound that hadn’t slipped past her lips since she was twelve.

“So as an empath…ya feel what I do. There anything else to it?”

“Like what?”

“Well, c’mon, Rem… Ya read feelin’s. How about controllin’ ‘em?”

It was one more secret Remy would regret until his last breath. He’d left Logan without a cohesive answer, which was just as wicked as an outright lie. He deserved Logan’s hatred if he lived long enough to confirm his suspicions about him. But now, Remy was desperate, and he channeled his remaining strength into softening his words to a hypnotic lull. She cocked her head to the side, letting her eyes roam hungrily over his face.

“What’s a man like yours got ta keep a sweet lil’ t’ing like you on his arm, chere?”

“Money. Sway. Balls,” she answered bluntly, then chuckled. She ran her fingers through Remy’s hair, giving him chills. “He ain’t as pretty as you.”

“Non? Remy ain’ so pretty right now.”

“Naw. Little torn up, but you clean up pretty. I can tell.”

Three doors up, Victor’s eyes narrowed and he no longer focused on Hector’s words. Voices… Coming from the wrong direction.

He stood and moved away from the desk, and Hector automatically rose to his feet out of respect. And caution.

Remy contemplated his options. “Know where dere’s a window?”

“Pfft…you’ve just been back here this whole time? This your first time in this dump? Sheesh. There’s a big window at the end of the hall. Don’t know if you wanna go that way, though. At least not right now. I didn’t show up alone, papi. My man’s with Vic, and those Poderosos,” and she paused to spit on the ground, “are waiting out there like vultures, acting like they’re gonna step in our talk with Vic. They need to step off.”

“Don’ sound like y’all are too friendly,” Remy mused. Sweat broke out over his flesh, and her strong perfume was making his head ache.

“You could say that.” She sighed. “We got a problem, though, papi chulo. Y’see, even if I cut you loose,” and she held up a hand to ward off his hopeful look, “you’re too beat up and look too much like someone who’s wronged Vic. They won’t trust you. Shit, even I can’t necessarily do that.”

“Chere…I’m harmless. Look at me.” His fingertips grazed her emotions, plucking at them with the lightest touch. She was rapt and relaxed, happy right where she was.

“You say that…I don’t believe you.” But her voice held a cooing note, implying that she didn’t mind. Remy had a sensual energy and an aura that sucked her in. He leaned back and tipped his head up further to better meet her unsettling gaze. Her eyes…those were her real eyes. The slitted pupils warped, widening until they were almost round, then retracting to narrow gashes, and Maria began to purr. It thrummed through Remy as she traced his collarbones with the tip of her nail.

“MARIA!”

“Shit,” she hissed. Her reverie was broken, and so was Remy’s hold on her. She stared down at him one last time. “What the…fuck?” She wiped her face as though she were scraping away cobwebs.

“MARIA! VENGA!”

“I’m outta here,” she muttered.

“Chere,” Remy whispered. She doubled back, then peered back over her shoulder toward the door. She gave him a long, meaningful look.

“What the hell. Eh.” She darted at him quicker than Remy could blink, and her talon flew out in a sharp arc. Remy winced as its tip caught him, dragging through the cruel duct tape binding his arms. A second slash, just as sudden, scored the tape over his right side. “Buena suerte, papi. Bye, baby.” She hurried out into the corridor, stumbling back into her shoes. Haste made her less graceful. Remy didn’t know if that was more cause to be worried. He wiggled his arms to force more blood circulation into the painful limbs.

*

Logan cut off his highbeams and rolled to a stop along the roadside, well behind the short line of cars outside the warehouse’s perimeter. The area was thickly wooded with pine trees and tall oaks, more practical than pretty. It ensured greater privacy from the road; he could assume that much. He drifted into the brush, removing his bright red flannel. His wifebeater was a dull gray and his jeans were dark indigo. Despite the frigid air, Logan wanted to remain inconspicuous. His breath left his nose in long, steamy trails and he lay in wait, listening to snippets of conversation. Logan grew frustrated with his own rusty Spanish as some of the warehouse’s visitors switched between both languages easily, cracking loud jokes and smoking cigarettes. Logan smelled the acrid scent of a Mickey’s and made a face. Logan crammed his cell phone deep into his jeans pocket and shoved his flannel beneath the base of a piny shrub as he scanned his surroundings.

The warehouse wasn’t poorly lit; that spelled out more of a disadvantage for him, since his enhanced vision made that moot. Darkness was his friend if he wanted to move about without detection.

So he moved.

“My pinche vieja started crying when I told her I knew about pinche Sancho.”

“Found him under the bed, jue?”

“Nah. Just the shit you hear about, the bed looked like it’d been rolled around in –“His voice had been cut off, and his cigarette he’d been about to light fell to the ground.

“What the fu-“ 

His friend didn’t even see the fist coming. It hit him like a bag of bricks, and down he went. Logan dragged them both into the brush, contemplating what to do with them. He needed the advantage, and taking out witnesses would help him along and let him get Remy out more quickly. Logan considered their clothing for a moment, then removed the sunglasses and dark cap from the taller one. He needed to blend in. The shorter one was stockier in build, so Logan wagered his black Southpole jacket with white leather sleeves would fit him.

He felt the thump of something metal against his ribs and found a knife tucked into his coat’s inner pocket. Logan didn’t want it to come to that, but he decided it would come in handy. All that was left to do was work his way inside, and if need be, mingle.

He waited behind a large tree for three men to walk out of the warehouse’s loading dock and jump down from the pallet. The chatter grew louder and more raucous, and Logan watched several men attempting to load up trucks with what looked like crates of auto parts. His hackles rose as he wondered if any of them came from Remy’s uncle’s shop. The odors of the warehouse assailed him and he stifled a sneeze; the pheromones of the men surrounding him were strong and acrid top notes laid over the scent of sawdust and motor oil. These were tough customers, and Logan had to sell himself as one of the gang. He put on his game face and kept his head down. To his credit, only a couple of them acknowledged him with brief nods.

C’mon, Rem, where are you?

Logan tensed at the crash of a heavy crate that slid off the edge of the forklift, splintering the wood and sending its contents sliding across the concrete.

“C’mon, get ‘em up, let’s go!” Logan wavered a moment, then decided to make himself scarce during the welcome distraction. He headed down a dark corridor toward the left, glad to get away from the noise for a few minutes to clear his head.

It also cleared his palate and gave him a cleaner slate to work with, since he picked up Remy’s scent. His back was up and unpleasant tingles were running down Logan’s nerve endings as the tang of blood hit him, not yet cold. He hugged the walls, bare to the rafters, not even insulated, ducking into an empty room at the sounds of booted feet. He listened to low, guttural chatter and smelled tobacco, smokeless, musky. It was just as well; one loose spark could send the place up like a powder keg.

“Gonna be glad when Vic’s through with this deal. Man, my ass hurts from sittin’ in the car all night.”

“Why?”

“Had ta stake out a house downtown. Keepin’ an eye on a mark.”

Logan suppressed a growl. The speaker’s voice grew muffled as he tucked a Skoal bandit into his mouth.

“Thought he was bad ass, too. But Vic made him sing like he was at the opera a little while ago. Fuckin’ pussy.”

“What’s he owe him?”

“It ain’t like that. Never mind,” he demanded. Logan knew he caught himself in saying too much. But it confirmed what he didn’t to admit, that the blood he smelled belonged to Remy. He waited for the sounds of their feet and voices to retreat and heard them move out into the warehouse, exclaiming over the destroyed crate.

He moved quickly toward the end of the hall; those rooms were completely devoid of light, presumably with no windows. It made sense that if someone wanted to smuggle a victim out of sight – Logan wouldn’t go that step further and think of them as hiding a body – that they would go that route. His nose didn’t appear to be lying to him. Remy’s faint scent grew stronger, but so did the scent of tobacco. He smelled the butane of a lighter and heard another set of voices coming from inside a small office. One of them was strangely familiar and raised his hackles. Logan edged around the side of the door and peered in through the crack.

Heat flooded his cheeks at the sight of Victor Creed, his ex’s lover, lounging back in the leather chair with his cowboy boots propped on the desk. He was speaking with a man in one of the same jackets Logan wore, and they broke into harsh laughter. Logan ducked back and immediately retreated further into the corridor, heading toward the back. He paused at the sound of more voices heading his way. Logan grew more wary about the possibility of being found out if too many people took a good look at his face. He rummaged in his pocket and took out his cell phone and opened it, pretending to dial. He kept his back turned to the men coming up behind him, and as luck would have it, they left him alone.

But he had to act fast, because Logan didn’t trust his luck to hold out much longer.

Victor looked up briefly toward the doorway as he heard an unfamiliar pair of footfalls in the hall pass by. Alex looked puzzled as Victor cocked his head and sniffed the air, holding up a hand to silence him.

“Whatsamatter? Que traes, vato??”

“Nuthin’.”

It definitely wasn’t nothing. The scent wasn’t unfamiliar, and Victor wore a shrewd look, narrowing his eyes as he considered the possibilities.

Walt’s ex. The pretty boy’s old man. It made sense. But what made him think he had the stones to walk into Vic’s place, as nice as you please, and think he could just take what was his?

Logan knew he was right on top of Remy’s scent, and anger simmered in his gut at the top notes of blood and sweat, even a hint of charred flesh. His instincts made him turn right. His fingers tentatively pressed a closed door until it gave without him turning the knob. Logan crept inside, surprised to find the room empty except for a chair and some wads of ripped duct tape lying on the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered, wondering what he’d missed. That didn’t look good –

His senses belatedly told him there was another heartbeat in the room with him, but by the time he realized it, a long, muscular arm clamped itself around his neck in a headlock, and Logan felt something sharp press against his jaw.

“Don’ make a sound,” Remy growled in his ear. The scent of his burnt skin was overwhelmingly strong now, and Logan heard a rushing in his ears as Remy’s arm began to constrict his airway with surprising strength. “T’ought I wuz jus’ gonna sit an’ wait fo’ anot’er round, eh?”

“Rem…”

“Mebbe Remy’s gon’ use you t’help him walk outta here, huh?”

“Rem…I am here ta take ya outta here,” Logan rasped. The piece of broken glass was withdrawn from the side of Logan’s neck, and Remy’s arm released him in surprise.

“Merde,” he murmured, waiting for Logan to regain his bearings as he doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

“…*kaffkaffkaff*…shit…sorry. Didn’t mean ta scare ya, darlin’.” Remy set down the piece of the window pane that he’d snapped loose, thankful that someone had broken it before him, providing him with a makeshift weapon. Remy’s hands reached for him, righting him and lifting the brim of the hat, lowering the dark glasses. Relief and shock flooded them both, and Logan gave Remy a brief, rough kiss.

“Me neither, chere…m’sorry.” His hand trembled as he laid it against Logan’s grizzled cheek. Logan’s were on him, examining him briefly. He probed the bleeding sore on his neck, and Remy hissed in pain. 

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’ matter. Gotta get outta dis hellhole.”

“It does matter, Rem. Cuz they picked the wrong man, on the wrong day. I protect what’s mine.” If Remy was affected by Logan calling him his, he made no sign. 

“Ya shouldna ever been pulled into dis shit, mec.”

“I’m in it now. I ain’t gettin’ out til I get you out, Rem,” Logan whispered hoarsely. “Ya hear me?”

“Don’ make promises ya might not be able ta keep, chere.”

Logan’s promise was about to be tested…

 

CRASH!

The door flew off the hinges and both men stumbled out of the way of the flying splinters. The light switch was the only appliance in the bare-raftered, drafty room, and the room came alive with its ugly yellow glare from the unshaded bulb overhead.

“Now it’s a party,” Victor chuckled. “Can’t say I’m surprised, runt. Knew it was you. Think I ain’t gonna smell someone new when they come up into my place?” Logan’s eyes narrowed; Victor’s blue ones gleamed. “The nose knows,” he informed him, tapping it. They stared down the barrel of his Glock as Victor was joined by Alex in the doorway.

“What’s goin’ on, homes?”

“Go do a head count of yer men,” Vic told him without even looking over his shoulder. “Got this asshole wearin’ yer colors. My bet’s on a couple of ‘em being taken out, at least.” Alex nodded and left reluctantly; he didn’t even want to know what Victor Creed was messing with on the side, but it didn’t look good. The vaguer it was to him, the better. He didn’t see shit, he didn’t know shit, if anyone came knocking on his own door.

“Ya know ya stepped into a whole world of shit, right, runt?”

“Guess I don’t know any better,” Logan shrugged, tossing the glasses to the floor with a clatter.

“Don’t move,” Victor growled, “or the pretty boy gets it. Hands up, nice and slow. That’s it.”

“Yer the boss,” Logan shrugged. With that, his left arm whipped up toward the unshielded light bulb. It shattered and darkened the room. His motion had been so quick that Remy didn’t see how he broke the bulb when he wasn’t nearly tall enough to reach it.

Logan had sharp night vision, but he was counting on the glare’s remaining spots before his eyes to be just as disorienting to their captor, as a distraction. He rushed Victor in the doorframe and tackled him, plowing into his sternum. Victor roared in surprise and rage, taken aback that the stocky, older man could talk him down so easily, hitting him like a Mack truck. They scuffled, and Victor took out a chunk of the fragile drywall as he made impact. Logan accomplished his goal of knocking the Glock out of his hand.

It went off as it landed, discharging with a loud crack. Remy deftly jerked back from its path, and he almost felt it come within a hairs’ breadth of his arm. His reaction speed was razor sharp, to Logan’s relief, yet another mystery he’d unravel when he had some free time with his boyfriend.

Now wasn’t the time to ponder it.

The gunshot threw the warehouse into bedlam. The uneasy cease-fire between the rival gangs was officially over.

“What the fuck?” Alejandro spun around at the sound of the noise and ran back inside, nearly getting knocked over by a handful of men running out. “MARIA!” He never saw his girlfriend leave, even after he’d dismissed her, and she was too visible and too easy a target if anyone wanted to take out their vengeance on him through the one closest to him. Two of his men were already flanking him, Colts drawn and eyes wild.

“Knew those pussies were gonna try somethin’, man!”

“This ain’t them!” Alex hissed. “Find Maria! Get her outta here!”

Kyle doubled back into the long corridor. “VIC!” he roared. He knew something was going down tonight. There were too many men from both gangs in the warehouse and milling around outside; they should have each only cherry picked a handful to come pick up their merchandise and seal the deals. Victor liked to live dangerously. His house, his rules.

Julien hid in the same room where they first brought Remy, heart pounding. He’d kept himself scarce as soon as Alex went back to meet Vic. He vaguely remembered a strange man wandering inside the warehouse, short, stocky and familiar, the only White man in Alex’s crew, from the look of it. It puzzled him, but he wasn’t about to question anyone. He would have been shocked to find that it was Remy’s lover who tried to step between them in the parking lot at his nephew’s party.

Julien’s hand reached awkwardly for the gun tucked into his waistband; he was alarmed to see how badly it trembled. “Shit, shit!” he hissed under his breath. There was an uncomfortable dipping sensation in his gut. If anyone broke in on him now, Julien knew he was likely to piss his pants.

It was time to figure out his loyalties.

“I’m wit’ Vic,” he whispered hoarsely. “All of nut’in, I’m in wit’ Vic.” If worse came to worse, he ran, but if he lived, it would get back to Vic, and he’d take him out, anyway. Julien muttered an uncharacteristic prayer and tried to ignore the cold, rank sweat that broke out over his flesh. He took a deep breath and cast himself out of the room, making his way toward Victor’s office.

Victor fought the runt, but he was a stubborn fuck and he wouldn’t let him go, constantly leaning his shoulder into him, right up under his ribs. The position kept smacking the wind out of his chest and making him cough. Victor dug his fingers into Logan’s skull, pressing inward with surprising strength. Logan saw spots and felt the blood rushing in his ears, but that didn’t deter him. They both struggled to their feet and their fists flew.

Victor drew first blood, a fact that didn’t surprise Logan. The upside was that it gave him the chance to size him up and take his worth in a scrap. Vic favored his left side, and he paused a moment, feinting and grinning at Logan as he licked the drop of his blood from a brutally sharp fingernail.

“Yer a tasty fuck,” he told him. “Too bad.”

“Ya think?”

“Ol’ Walt…ya know, he made me doubt his taste fer a second. But man, I’m lookin’ at you with new eyes, runt. You’ve got stones. After I fuck yer bitch, I’m takin’ a crack at you. Bet that old asshole’s still nice and tight. Did ya like it when Walt bent ya over? Betcha did.”

Rage darkened Logan’s features. Creases gathered over the bridge of his nose as his nostrils flared and his lips drew back from his teeth. His pupils dilated so far that they were nearly black. Behind him, Remy didn’t see the change that came over his face, but he read his broad, shortened, defensive stance and saw the skin over his knuckles strained taut and paper-thin, revealing stark red blood vessels. His fingers twitched, clenching briefly before he made up his mind.

His growl was blood-curdling and made Remy’s hair stand on end as he launched himself at Victor again. They crashed into the wall and spun, twisting and tripping over their feet. The bare planks snapped in protest at the impact. Victor’s long legs had him at a disadvantage, making him easier to knock off his feet, but he stood fast, barely skidding back as Logan tried to take him down again.

“Merde!” Remy saw the gleam of Vic’s Glock where it lay abandoned in the corner. He lunged for it and noticed that the safety was off. Remy tested its weight in his hand; it felt reassuringly cold and solid.

He was deprived quickly of it as it was knocked from his grip when someone behind him delivered a savage kick to his lower back. “Stay down!” Kyle barked, crushing his spinal cord beneath his heel. He ground his boot heel into his vulnerable body, already racked by pain from his bonds and the earlier beatings. Remy cried out harshly as the sound was smashed from his burning lungs. He squirmed, trying to go after the gun. Kyle knelt down and jerked his head back by the hair; Remy’s scalp smarted and his eyes watered. “Stay down, I said! Are ya deaf, Bright Eyes?” Remy marshaled his strength and twisted his body around, leaving himself open and vulnerable to the viciousness and lack of conscience he saw in Kyle Gibney’s hard blue eyes, as well as being almost flat on his back.

In a twinkling, Remy threw his leg up in a sharp, clean arc and kick him in his right lat. To his satisfaction, Vic’s man’s torso buckled and his mouth dropped open in shock and pain that seemed to expand as he caught his breath. He flailed and reflexively groped at the ailing muscle. Remy took that opportunity to trip him, and he stumbled backward into the nearest floor beam, striking the back of his head with a sickening crack. He fell to his knees, dazed. Remy didn’t look back as he scrambled once again for the gun.

Mayhem erupted in the warehouse as more guns were drawn and knives came out of various hiding places, gleaming in the stark overhead lights. Hector and Alex’s crews ran at each other, striking each other with fists and the butts of their Glocks. Blood began to hiss out from shallow, razor-fine wounds and spray a fine mist across the concrete.

Maria had enough. She ran from the warehouse, nearly stumbling in her heels, and with shaking fingers she found her tiny mobile phone.

“I don’t care who knows,” she swore to herself as she dialed nine-one-one. “This shit ain’t right.” She ran and spoke at the same time as the dispatch picked up on the second ring. “You’ve gotta send somebody, bitch! The warehouse off of Lee Byrnes Highway and thirty-two. Don’t you hear this shit!” The sound of gunfire made her shriek and duck behind a nearby Cadillac. She smashed herself back against it, eyes wide and watering. “Get me the fuck outta here!” She clapped the phone shut in a panic and ran toward the road.

“No you don’t, bitch,” Angel muttered from the passenger seat. She was through waiting, and it wasn’t every day that a chance like this reared its head. She tucked her hand into her pocket, feeling the cool metal of the shank, and she suppressed a smile as she climbed out of the car. She followed Maria’s flight, tsking at the easy visibility of her bright red dress in the dark.

Victor grinned through blood-stained teeth and spat out a reddish gob, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “Yer a good time, runt. Gotta hand ya that much. Show me whatcha got.” He beckoned to him, waving him forward and pointing to his chin. “Hit me. Right here.” Logan came at him, fist raised, but Victor caught it in his large, meaty grip and shoved him off balance easily, since he topped Logan by a foot and a half. He deflected blows with his forearms and wrists with calculated precision, a practiced fighter who was on to Logan now and who seemed to never tire.

Victor raked his nails across Logan’s neck with his next swat, drawing more blood without the use of brass knuckles. Remy didn’t know how he was managing to tear Logan’s flesh, but it sickened him to watch him tear at his lover as they fought.

He needn’t have worried.

“Like blood? Bet ya do,” Logan purred. “Yer gettin’ off on this, aintcha?”

“Yeah, baby…give some ta daddy,” Victor grunted as Logan slammed into him again, this time clipping him in the jaw. That only made Victor annoyed. He swung low and punched Logan in the testicles, just to watch his face change. Flecks of bloody froth flew from Logan’s lip and he almost retched as the pain swelled and throbbed. 

“Fine,” Logan huffed. He braced himself for the coming, burning pain and winced as the flesh over his knuckles seemed to burst and peel back, exposing the bone. Victor’s eyes widened in astonishment as three blood-streaked, pale protrusions shot out of his hands, making an unnerving clicking sound as bones slid from hollow sheathes.

“Chere!” Remy grunted, not believing his eyes as Logan lunged at Victor, armed this time and more imposing than ever. Logan changed before them, going into his own zone, concentrating on taking Victor down. His teeth were bared in a feral grimace and Remy no longer recognized him as the man he loved…he wasn’t human.

He suddenly screamed as something sharp and hot sank itself into his neck, and he realized with horror that it was Kyle’s teeth. He worried his head back and forth, trying to snap Remy’s neck like a rabid dog. He smelled his foul breath and the remaining stench of his tobacco. Remy reached up and clutched handfuls of his flying blond hair and jerked himself lose, then backhanded him squarely in the nose, sending pain shooting straight through his nerve endings as he shattered the cartilage. He’d hurt tomorrow, provided that he lived. Kyle fell back again and Remy stood over him, hands shaking as he leveled the gun, aiming it between his eyes.

“Ya ain’t gonna do anything with that,” he hissed as blood poured from his nasal cavity and bubbled from his lips. “Pansy ass.”

“Shot m’uncle,” Remy reminded him. “Don’t be so damned sure of y’self, mec. Remy’s had a long night, and he’s tired. Ain’t got de safety on dis piece, and ya pissed ‘im off.” His hand was trembling fiercely and chills racked Remy’s body. He felt a sickening sinking in his gut, faced with the necessity of taking a life, if it meant walking out of the warehouse or being carried out. 

Logan spun around at the staccato sound of gunfire. Kyle threw himself face down on the concrete, shielding his head with his hands. Remy’s mouth was a hard line and the end of the gun was smoking. He drove Kyle back with his graceful stride, backing him up as he shuffled back ontot he heels of his hands. He only stopped as he ran up against the wall. “Like hurtin’ people’s family? Huh?” He pressed the gun right beneath Kyle’s abused nose, pressing the tip firmly into his palate. “Huh?” His voice was smooth and cruel.

“Rem…don’t,” Logan pleaded suddenly, stirred from his haze of blood lust and rage. “Don’t, darlin’. Please…” Victor used the distraction to tackle him. He knocked him down and bashed his head against the floor, once, twice, three times, making Logan’s head ring and his eyes see red, literally from the blood dripping from the new lacerations. He howled as Victor grasped his claws, grown from his own extra-dense but still hypersensitive bones, and bent them back, making them strain and pop ominously. Agony wrote itself over his features and he struggled and cried out beneath Victor, who held him down with a knee to his back.

Remy whirled at the sound of Logan’s cries. “CHERE! NON!” He aimed gun instead for Victor, but it was too late. A gunshot cracked in the air and Remy reeled back as his shoulder exploded in new pain that disabled his ability to think. He stared dumbly at the gouts of blood pouring from the wound and staining his dark tank, and his arm hung limp, making the gun clatter to the floor from his limp fingers. He staggered and slumped to the ground. Julien approached, gun still drawn now that he was out in the open. He stared down at him cruelly, but there was no joy in his eyes over what he’d done.

“I roll wit’ Vic now, mon frere,” he informed him. “S’up ta him whet’er you stay or go. Go down now or he’s gon’ take ya down later. Yer choice.”

“Look who finally grew a pair,” Victor hissed as Logan struggled beneath him. 

Logan fought to breathe, and instinctively he retracted his claws sharply, catching Victor by surprise. He got just enough leverage to twist himself up and back, duplicating Remy’s move of backhanding him with an unforgiving fist.

“Hnnggh!” SNIKT! The claws shot from their housings once more, gruesome phalanges with one goal in mind. Logan swung wild and raked them across Victor’s abdomen, shredding his shirt and flesh. Victor reeled back, stunned. His hand drifted to the wound and his fingers came up bloody.

“Ya…cut me…sonofa…bitch…”

“Easy, Vic!” Julien cried, hurrying forward to catch his boss under the arms, supporting him as he staggered to catch his balance. Julien trained the gun on Logan next as he shouldered himself under Victor’s arm.

“Gon’ pay for dat, mec,” he promised.

“Quit grandstandin’, ya stupid fuck,” Victor hissed. Julien jerked back and stared up into Victor’s sneering face. “Take him down!”

“Non,” he murmured softly, black eyes defiant. “You take ‘im down.” He flung Victor’s arm loose, throwing him off-balance. Logan was dragging himself to his feet, watching the scene unfold warily, hating the outcome.

“Yer in this as deep as Rem,” he told him in a gravelly, ruined voice. “Ya dragged him into it, and I’m draggin’ him back out, even if I hafta walk through ya.” Behind them, there were still men in the warehouse engaging in various scuffles. Auto parts clanged off of concrete and flesh, and the floor began to resemble a slaughterhouse. Three already lay dead, the result of Victor’s folly and sloppy way of doing business. SNNIIIKKTT… A second set of claws slowly extended from his other hand, bony tips gleaming like rapiers.

“M’only in it as far as I wanna be in it, mec!” He aimed the gun at Logan, then twisted around and trained it on Vic.

“I dare ya. Try that shit, pansy,” Victor snarled, almost amused. “If I don’t come after ya, someone else will.” Julien wouldn’t put the gun down. He was trembling and chilled, and his cheeks were eerily pale. A tear leaked from his eye and he smeared his cheek with a smudge of motor oil as he wiped it away. Victor grinned. “Waited too fuckin’ long ta make up yer mind!” Julien wasn’t fast enough for Victor as he swung out and neatly rammed his elbow into Julien’s teeth, disarming him as he dropped the gun. Victor kicked the gun free and went to work on Julien, kicking him and hurling him against the wall beams. Logan tensed, ready to throw himself at Victor but welcoming the distraction.

“Vic! Let me do ‘im!” Kyle shouted weakly. Vic scooped up the gun before Logan could reach for it himself.

“Knock yerself out, man.” He caught it deftly and took aim, just as Victor shoved Julien away from him. BAM! Julien’s body jerked, and Remy watched in horror as his dark eyes bulged in realization of what happened, slapping ineffectually at the broadening red stain on his chest.

“Quoi…? Shhh…chere?” He reached out to Remy pleadingly as blood dripped from his mouth. “Chere?” he repeated as he stumbled, then tripped over his feet in a macabre dance until he tumbled lifelessly to the floor.

“Think you’re takin’ me down, punk ass? Just because you got stupid? Huh?” Kyle railed. He aimed the gun at him again, meaning to deal insult on top of injury, but Remy was having none of it. Bella’s horrified look from the front porch swam in Remy’s vision and her words echoed in his head as he ran at Kyle, plowing into him despite lacking the use of his arm.

“Remy, NO!” Logan charged toward them, meaning to throw himself between Remy and the Glock. Remy threw his full weight at Kyle and sent him reeling back. The gun fired and shot out the overhead light. Victor slinked back into the darkness, clawing at the stinging wound that was sapping his strength. Logan knocked the pistol from his fist, but he didn’t weave out of the way as Kyle’s feet continued to carry him back into Logan’s path.

His claws connected with his back, impaling him with the blood-curdling tearing of flesh. He didn’t even cry out. His head flopped from one side to the other, staring into Remy’s face and seeking out Victor imploringly.

“What…fuck…Vi…Vic…ccckkk??” Logan’s eyes were horrified as they found Remy’s, disbelieving that Kyle’s body was slipping off his claws and sliding to the floor. Logan’s breathing was a gulping lurch that caught in his throat as he retracted his claws. He stared at the blood dripping from his hands, which now shook. 

“Rem?” he whispered, shaking his head numbly. “Remy?”

“It’s okay, chere,” Remy told him, even though he didn’t believe it. Logan needed the lie and the assurance that he hadn’t just lost Remy to unintentional violence. “It’s okay.”

They turned at the low scuffle of uneven footsteps down the corridor. Victor had disappeared. Logan was resolute, and he replaced his grim mask, eyes hardening so quickly that Remy feared he had already lost him.

“Chere,” he murmured. “Don’t. C’mon. Please don’t, chere…”

“He’ll come back,” he told Remy woodenly, tossing the words over his shoulder as though Remy had said nothing. “They always come back…” Logan strode down the corridor, following the scent of Victor’s blood stench and the smeary trail of it on the floor. Remy watched him leave with bleak eyes, and suddenly his strength left him. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, cold, shivering in his meager, drenched tank top and bare feet. He closed his eyes against the continuing violence around him and didn’t even flinch at the sound of sirens outside.

Logan opened the creaky door to Victor’s office and found him slumped over the desk, reaching for his lighter and a cigarette. He glanced up at the sound of Logan’s footsteps and the slow, telltale slide of his claws breaking through flesh. “Ain’t…ready ta…leave the party, runt?” His hand shook as he pushed the cigarette between his lips and leaned back against the desk. He lit it and drew in a hungry draft of smoke, even though his remaining breaths were precious and dwindling.

“Nah. I’m ready. Been ready.”

“Yer a pussy,” Victor huffed. “Can’t hang. Knew ya didn’t have any balls…”

“My guts are still inside me.” Victor barked a harsh, creaky laugh.

“Goodie…fer you. Heh. Yeah.” Victor dragged more tobacco into his collapsing lungs. Logan looked at him with no pity. A voice in the back of his mind screamed that Remy had suffered enough tonight, that it would kill him if he knew Logan willfully took Victor’s life. 

The kid just doesn’t understand. I ain’t got a choice. He almost lost him. He could still lose him if he didn’t get him in an ambulance.

“You a prayin’ man, Vic?”

“Screw…you,” he huffed.

 

Remy opened his eyes at the sound of feet up to him, and he stared blearily up at Alex Montoya, livid and manic.

“Where is that fucker? Huh? Where’s Vic?”

“He’s gone, mec…he’s already dead. Down…dere,” Remy informed him feebly.

“No! NO! He AIN’T dead! He ain’t dead, cuz I’m gonna tear his ass up! He OWES me! Half my boys are down, and that fucker owes…me.” Tears welled thickly in his dark eyes, and he almost looked like a vulnerable young boy, except that he had a gun trained on Remy. “What’s he got on you?”

“It don’ matter,” Remy said.

“What’s he got on you?” Alex insisted.

“Don’ matter. S’done. Ain’ got not’in’ on Remy no more.” Alex shook his head and plowed a hand through his long black hair. His sob was strangled and brief. He crossed himself and kissed the small crucifix hanging from his neck, then stormed down the corridor.

Logan advanced on Victor. “Say yer prayers. They ain’t gonna help, but I ain’t gonna go ta the grave knowin’ I didn’t give ya a chance.”

“Gonna meet me in hell, runt…”

The door bounced off the wall behind Logan, startling him as Alex burst inside.

“This is for Maria,” he spat. 

BLAM!


	19. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy isn’t out of physical danger yet. The boys deal with their grief and loss and have some sober discussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. That’s what plagued me all these weeks, trying to figure out how Remy was going to get out of this. We’re past the violence, folks, but buckle your seatbelts for a trip into Angstville.

Belladonna waited for someone to wake her up and tell her she was just having a bad dream. Her coffee sat stone-cold in her cup and the ticking of her kitchen clock sounded hollow and chilled her blood. 

Julien’s time had run out. Her throat felt raw from crying and from fighting the strangling sensation in her chest that she knew was her heart breaking. Her bloodshot eyes stared listlessly around the room, landing on a picture of herself, Julien, Remy and Rene in a magnet frame on the fridge. She shook her head bleakly and plowed her hand through her rumpled blonde hair.

“Why?” she pleaded to no one. “Julien…aw, God…”

By some miracle Rene remained asleep when the police officers knocked on her door, rousing her from mere minutes of sleep. The walk to the front door felt surreal, floor boards cold beneath her bare feet, the open ends of her fleece robe brushing her shins. 

The sight of their navy blue uniforms, silver badges and stoic expressions made her knees buckle before they’d even said a word. Belladonna’s heart hammered and tripped and she broke out in a cold sweat.

“Belladonna Beudreaux?”

“Oui,” she said numbly, processing the sound of her name. Not LeBeau. The voice in her subconscious reasoned that if anything had happened to Remy, they would have called her by her married name, so that meant that something awful happened to-

“Julien! Oh, Julien!” The younger of the two officers steeled himself at the sight of her large blue eyes filling and pleading with him. She shook her head in denial as they asked to come in but stepped aside anyway, gripping the doorknob for support.

Their explanation did nothing to soothe the hollow, raw feeling inside her. She mentally threw out all but the most important words: Fatally wounded. Shot at point-blank range. Died instantly. Didn’t get the chance to suffer. They were wrong. Julien had suffered a long time, and misery loved company; he’d tried in so many ways to take all of them down with him.

She was roused from the thick fog of grief by the sound of her ex-husband’s name. “…Mr. LeBeau was rushed to Salem Memorial Hospital. He’s in their trauma unit now, if you want to contact them-“

“Quoi?” she asked shakily. “Y’mean Remy? Trauma??”

“He was badly wounded, ma’am. They’re doing everything they can for him right now; thankfully the paramedics got to him while he was till conscious.” 

“Conscious? W-what…? What happened t’Remy? What happened t’REMY?” She fought to control her voice and eventually pressed her fingers over her lips to push down the helpless, useless words.

“Your husband appears to have been shot, ma’am, but that wasn’t his only injury. That’s as much information as we have so far.” She collapsed then, and only vaguely remembered the alarm in their voices before she blacked out. 

*

 

One hour ago:

 

Remy stared blearily up at Alex Montoya, livid and manic.

“Where is that fucker? Huh? Where’s Vic?” The young thug didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, higher and more petulant, full of denial and helplessness.

“He’s gone, mec…he’s already dead. Down…dere,” Remy informed him feebly. Alex hated the look of pity in those freaky red eyes. He ignored the fact that the man lying before him was bleeding to death and continued to interrogate him.

“No! NO! He AIN’T dead! He ain’t dead, cuz I’m gonna tear his ass up! He OWES me! Half my boys are down, and that fucker owes…me.” Tears welled thickly in his dark eyes, and he almost looked like a vulnerable young boy, except that he had a gun trained on Remy. “What’s he got on you?”

“It don’ matter,” Remy said.

“What’s he got on you?” Alex insisted.

“Don’ matter. S’done. Ain’ got not’in’ on Remy no more.” Alex shook his head and plowed a hand through his long black hair. His sob was strangled and brief. He crossed himself and kissed the small crucifix hanging from his neck, then stormed down the corridor. He didn’t care that he was leaving behind a dying man.

Victor would soon keep him company. He retraced his steps to Victor’s office and caught bits and snatches of a conversation that made little sense to him. His head still rang with smoke, gunshots and screams, and his hands were covered in Maria’s blood. With grim purpose, he kicked open the door.

The short fucker in one of his boys’ jackets whipped his head around in surprise, glaring at him. “Get the fuck outta here,” he snapped, then gave pause as he eyed the gun. He didn’t seem worried about his own safety, just resigned. “Ya don’t need ta be here,” he warned Alex.

“Nah, homes,” he spat, “YOU don’ need ta be here!” He trained his Glock on Victor, dark eyes beseeching him. “Why?” he whispered, eyes filling. “Why?”

“What’re ya goin’…*koff*…on about, kid?” Victor shrugged, taking another hungry drag of his smoke. He blew too little of it out, then gurgled and coughed up a rivulet of blood that darkened the blotter across his desk. The once-menacing blond was haggard and torn up, appearing only half his usual size, hunched as he was. 

Alex was all out of pity. “This is for Maria,” he intoned, tilting the gun to the side, brown eyes boring into blue, executioner damning the accused. BLAM!

Logan watched in silent shock as the bullet sliced through Victor’s skull like a can opener punching tin. Those blue eyes looked stunned at the audacity it took for someone to take him out on his own turf, someone he trusted enough to let in on his game. Victor toppled, backpedaling as the momentum launched him through the cracked window behind him.

“Why?” Alex rasped.

“Kid,” Logan said carefully, then held up his hands in surrender as Alex spun on him, primed to take another shot.

“Got a problem?”

“Nah,” he told him easily, sparing Victor’s body a brief glance, bent backward in an impossible arch over the window jamb. A jagged protrusion of blood-streaked glass skewered him and rose up from his belly, saluting those who found him. “I ain’t got a problem.” Irony infused his voice and he backed up when Alex fled the room.

Alex spared Logan having to tell Remy he’d killed a man over him; Logan didn’t know if he was grateful over the method or not, but he had one thing on his mind that quickened his steps back down the corridor. When he returned to Remy’s side, his red-on-black eyes pleaded with him, bleakly.

“Chere?”

“It’s okay, Rem. C’mere…it’s okay,” Logan assured him. He blanched at how limply Remy held onto his hand, and his skin felt too clammy when he gathered Remy against him, removing his jacket and wrapping it around him. Remy’s comforting scent was marred by too much blood and gunsmoke. Remy huddled against him, breathing stertorously into Logan’s neck.

“Chere,” he murmured weakly. “Logan…gotta tell ya-“ Remy choked and wheezed, and panic gripped Logan’s chest, making him feel dizzy and sick.

“Shut up,” he argued. “Ya don’t hafta tell me anything, baby, just take it easy! Don’t waste yer breath, Rem, please?”

“Love you,” he insisted, butting Logan’s chin with the top of his head to get him to look at him. Logan’s eyes burned and his throat clenched up as he stared down into Remy’s tortured, handsome face, so precious to him.

“Remy!”

“Love you,” he repeated, and Logan tightened his grip on him, nodding vigorously.

“Love you,” he countered. “I love you, okay? Damn it, Rem…just…take it easy, okay?”

“Oui,” Remy agreed.

“Stay with me, Rem. Just stay with me.” He lowered his lips and kissed Remy’s too-cool cheek tenderly, smoothing his hair back from his eyes. “Love you, Remy…” Now that he’d said it aloud, Logan couldn’t stop. Remy fought to stay awake in his arms, absorbing his warmth as he sagged against him. His own stubbornness and relief that Logan felt the same after so many frustrating, desperate weeks kept him going until the paramedics hurried over to them amidst the police officers making myriad arrests. Remy and Logan stopped counting how many sirens they heard coming down the road and Logan had to stop himself from babbling as they badgered him with questions. He was reluctant to let go of Remy as they urged him to lie him down. A young woman who looked younger than Remy began taking his vitals and fastened a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“What happened to him?”

“Gunshot,” Logan said blankly. “And he was roughed up pretty bad.”

“How long ago?”

“Few minutes.” It felt like it had been forever. Logan suppressed his resentment as they told him to move aside so they could take care of his lover, but he hovered nearby, comforted only by the sound of Remy’s heartbeat, still audible to him over the din.

 

*

Logan followed them as they carried Remy outside on a stretcher. Remy looked smaller huddled beneath the scratchy blankets and wan beneath the oxygen mask. He gestured to Logan, who held his hand in a greedy, pleading grip.

“Love you,” he murmured. Remy squeezed his hand in return before they made him release him. Moments later, he didn’t protest as police officers began to question him, paying particular attention to the jacket Remy wore when they found him, noticing the familiar gang colors. On his way to the patrol car, Logan chafed at the feel of the cool handcuffs and at the sight of the damage around him. The ground was littered with bodies and slick with spilled blood. The scent of it was heavy and rose up around him, choking him. Logan swore under his breath as he saw Alex fighting the two officers who had him bent over the hood of a patrol car. The beacon on the roof spun prisms of red and blue across his youthful, stricken face. Logan heard him crying out in Spanish, repeating Maria’s name.

Logan discovered why as they passed the paramedics drawing up a sheet over a young woman in red nearby who stared sightlessly, eerily up at the sky. Her pupils were slitted, marking her a mutant, if Logan’s wasn’t mistaken, but her gift hadn’t save her from a vicious stab wound that almost made her blood impossible to tell apart from her garish red outfit. In a neighboring patrol car, Logan saw an attractive, dark-skinned woman staring out sullenly from the back window. There was something in her demeanor that looked too satisfied, painting Logan a picture.

*

Three days later:

 

“I’m a mutant.”

Logan watched Remy’s expression with a knotted gut, waiting for him to condemn him. “I meant ta tell ya. I just…”

“Ya never got ‘round to it, homme?”

“Rem…no. No, that ain’t what I mean.”

“Got all day. Ain’ anywhere fo’ me t’go, chere.” Remy’s voice was hoarse after being on a respirator for two days following his surgery.

“I didn’t know how ta tell ya, okay?”

“Ya didn’t know how. Hnn. Guess back when Remy tol’ ya dat he wuz a mutant, dat wuzn’t de best opportunity, huh?” Logan flinched, then stared down at his hands. He shook his head.

“It ain’t the same. I ain’t like you.”

“De hell you ain’t.” Remy looked indignant and frustrated as he tried to lean up from the pillows, but Logan wouldn’t let him.

“Settle down. I ain’t. Remy…shit. It ain’t the same thing. Yer gift…” Logan sighed in defeat. “It’s beautiful. What you do is beautiful. You feel what other people feel. Whole world needs more people who can do what you do.”

“Sometimes it’s a curse,” Remy reminded him. “Dere’s some t’ings it’s better not t’know ‘bout some people.”

“Then ya know how I’m feelin’ right now.”

“I can tell dat jus’ by lookin’ at ya, mec. Ain’ got nut’in’ t’do wit’ bein’ an empat’.”

“Remy, I didn’t want to lose you. Ya’ve gotta understand why I never said anything.”

“Make me understand,” he insisted gently. “Cuz right now, I’m havin’ a hard time.”

“Ya saw what I did. You tell me why I did what I did.”

Both men fell silent. Logan moved back from the bed, giving Remy space he didn’t want. Remy sighed, then turned away from him, collecting his thoughts. Logan felt something inside him lurch painfully as Remy withdrew his empathy, abandoning him.

“Gonna hafta do dis de ol’ fashioned way,” Remy told him soberly, still not looking at him. “Gonna hafta talk t’Remy. Don’ make him guess what yer feelin’. ‘Splain t’me why ya’d keep dat big a secret from me fo’ so long, chere. Cuz I don’ want secrets between us anymore.”

“Because it’s ugly,” Logan blurted out. “Ain’t any reason on the planet why a man should be born with claws. That’s what they are, darlin’.”

“Could’ve handled it. Can’t treat me wit’ kid gloves, chere. Ain’ no angel myself; t’ought ya knew dat about me by now.”

“I’m an animal,” Logan whispered. 

“Bullshit. Don’ say shit like dat.” Remy was facing him now, and his eyes burned with anger. “Dat ain’ true.”

“It is,” Logan insisted raggedly. “I hear things real sharp, Rem. I see in the dark like it was bright as day. I can hear yer heart beating and smell it on ya that ya doubt me right now.” Remy’s face was stricken. 

“Don’ believe dat. Logan…I love you. Don’tcha see dat? Love ya so much, chere. Dat ain’t doubt yer sensin’ right now, Logan. Dat’s fear.” Logan closed his eyes and a shaky breath exploded from his lips. What he’d been most afraid of had come true, and Logan wanted to cut out his own heart. 

“Can’t love…what ya fear,” Logan whispered, and hot tears seeped through his closed lids.

“I don’ fear you. I’m afraid m’gonna lose you, chere.” Logan’s eyes snapped open, and his vision of Remy was blurred, troubling because of the look of panic and distress on his face. Logan shook his head, willing Remy to heed him.

“Silver couldn’t handle it,” he confessed, “so she left. She thought if she ignored it, it’d go away. She was always so afraid our friends would find out, or the neighbors’d see me doin’ something with my claws, that I’d forget myself. And Walt…I tried, Rem. I tried ta hide it, and he knew there was something wrong. He thought…he thought I was cheating on him. That I had to be hiding something. But there were other problems there. He was jealous. I knew it wouldn’t work out, so I just let it run its course. I never expected him to get so worked up and violent. I couldn’t live with bringing that out in him, but at the same time, I couldn’t trust him anymore.” Remy reached for him, and Logan returned to the bed, hovering over him and taking his hand. His own shook. “So when ya told me ya had a gift, I was confused. I didn’t want secrets between us, but I was was torn about telling you. I didn’t want to get too close t’you if it meant you getting hurt. I didn’t want ya ta think I was playin’ games.”

“But we ended up playin’ ‘em anyway.” Remy sighed, then reached for the lever of his bed rail, lowering it. He grunted as he edged over a bit, giving Logan enough room to sit on the bed, tugging him over when he seemed reluctant. “Dis is a mess.”

“Yeah.” More tears rolled down Logan’s cheeks. “M’sorry.”

“Me too.” Remy wiped them away with his thumb. “Ya can tell me anyt’in’. I promise. Remy don’ scare easily, chere.”

“It shouldn’t have come ta this.”

“Shit happens,” Remy shrugged. He heard the slight quaver in Remy’s voice, despite his calm demeanor. “C’mere, chere.”

“Remy-“

“Jus’ get de fuck over here,” Remy snapped, tugging Logan’s arm. “Don’ make Remy get outta bed an’ put ya over my knee. Ain’ above manhandlin’ ya ta get what I want.” A small cry escaped Logan’s chest mingling sorrow and apology and he allowed Remy’s arms to pull him down into his embrace. He was mindful of his injuries and the IV tubes as he bowed his face into Remy’s neck. Remy felt hot tears wetting the collar of his telemetry gown and his own eyes welled up as he clutched Logan’s wiry, thick hair. “Don’ act fer one minute like yer leavin’ me, givin’ me dat bullshit ‘bout me gettin’ hurt. ‘Cuz I love you.”

 

Six weeks later:

“Papa…no…Papa, no!”

Remy’s eyes flew open at the sound of his son’s voice in the dark, and he cursed as he jarred his shoulder with the effort it took to pull himself up from bed. “Comin’, chere…Daddy’s comin’, hold on.”

“PAPA!” His son’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill and distressed, quickening his steps on his way back to his son’s room.

“Rene?” Remy hurried to the dresser and flicked on the small Hot Wheels lamp with its checkered lampshade, filling the room with dim yellow light. “Baby, didja have a nightmare?”

“Papa, noooooooo,” he wailed. “No, Papa, I don’t want you to go!” Rene reached for him, fighting his way free from the tangle of blankets. Remy “oof”-ed slightly as his son climbed into his lap before he could sit all the way down on the bed. His arms ringed his neck in a death grip and Remy felt his little heart pounding through his back as he stroked it. 

“Awwww, Rene…dat’s all right, Papa ain’ goin’ anywhere. S’okay. Papa’s here.” He rocked him gently, rhythmically, and his son’s words slurred into low sobs. Remy didn’t waste any time, collecting Rene’s favorite baby blanket and teddy bear as he carried him back to his room.

Logan was already waiting for them, hopping into a tank and pajama bottoms to make himself decent. The covers were already turned down, and he nodded to Rene knowingly.

“Milk?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tom n’Jerry?”

“Nah. Too late. Jus’ de milk.”

“Wanna watch Tom n’Jerry,” Rene complained sleepily.

“Tomorrow, chere. S’bed time.”

“Can’t sleep.” Remy sat down on the bed and Rene automatically burrowed beneath the covers, despite his protests. Logan left the room and headed for the kitchen. He heated up the milk in Rene’s favorite cocoa mug, throwing in a pinch of sugar as he’d seen Remy do several times.

Logan padded back to the room and smiled as he watched Remy leaning over his son, smoothing back his hair and tucking his teddy bear into his arms. “Hey, big guy,” he offered. “What’s up, bub? Were ya givin’ the boogey man a run fer his money?”

“There’s no boogey man!” Rene snapped sourly, raising his bear to clobber Logan. Remy tsked, nudging his arm back down.

“Quit dat,” he warned him. “Logan’s jus’ messin’ with ya.”

“Nah. I’m just askin’ him if he needed backup, that’s all. Me an’ ol’ Boogey have an understanding. He understands I’m gonna hafta open a can of whoop-ass if he messes with my friends in the middle of the night. Here.” He handed Rene the milk as Remy helped him to sit back up. Logan yawned. “I know yer a big, strong man, kiddo. Yer pop’s right. Just messin’ around.”

“I got scared,” he admitted as he took a gulp of the milk. “You forgot the cinnamon.”

“My bad,” Logan grumbled as he got back up, already missing the warmth of the covers. He smothered a sigh as he went back the way he came. Remy encouraged him to drink it, anyway, and cuddled him close.

“What happened in yer dream?”

“They were taking you away. The bad men took you away, and they wanted to hurt you.”

“No more bad men around, petit. No one’s takin’ Daddy away.” But Remy’s words felt hollow to him, in light of recent weeks, and Rene had too many reasons to feel the way he did. “I’m right here, chere.”

“You said they wouldn’t come, but they shot Oncle Philippe,” he pointed out, too soberly for a young child. “An-and they shot Oncle Julien.”

“Oui,” Remy murmured. “Dey did. Rene…Oncle Julien’s in heaven now. An’ Oncle Philippe’s all better. We’re goin’ t’see him tomorrow ta have breakfast, okay?”

“Okay.” He finished the last gulp of the milk just as Logan arrived back with the cinnamon bottle, skraking the cup with a final slurp. Logan grunted under his breath.

“Sheesh…I’ll just be takin’ that,” he offered, and Rene handed him the empty mug.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let the bad men take away Papa.” Logan’s throat tightened and he shook his head.

“Never. I’ll never let anyone hurt yer Papa ever again.” He started to leave again.

“Don’t go!” Rene called out plaintively.

“I’ll be right back, kiddo, it’s okay!” This time Logan hid his smile as he turned his back. That darned kid…

When he came back, Remy had crawled back into bed already and Rene was yawning, closing his eyes as he snuggled up. Logan sighed.

“I’m gonna get the business end of his feet in my ribs again. Ya want me ta bunk in his room tonight?”

“Don’ go,” Rene complained before he drifted off. Remy huffed a laugh, then smiled up at him helplessly. Logan couldn’t resist that smile.

“Right. I’ll just be gettin’ back in bed, then.”

“Can’t argue wit’ de boss.”

Logan grumbled under his breath as he settled back beneath the blankets. “It ain’t the wakin’ up I mind, as much as hearin’ him cry.”

“Oui. Welcome ta my world. Dat was how I felt when he wuz little. Back den, Bella got up wit’ him more cuz she was nursin’ him. But t’ings changed once I had ta start playin’ Mommy when we split. We were batchin’ it, us two guys. Used ta hate his night terrors when he wuz two. Screamed in de middle of de night jus’ as de bed wuz startin’ ta feel real comfy, sounded like dere wuz evil ninjas bustin’ in t’rough de window fer all dat he used ta carry on.” Remy stroked Rene’s thin arm fondly. “He’s a good boy.”

“He’s the best,” Logan corrected him. “Yer a lucky man.”

“Oui.” He reached for Logan’s hand in the dark. “I am. Very lucky.” Remy finagled Rene’s sleeping bulk, shifting it so that he occupied the middle of the bed himself, instead. Moments later, he lay with Rene tucked into his arms on one side and Logan spooned at his back, blanketed by his warmth. Having that much love wrapped around him chased away Remy’s nightmares, too.

 

*

Additional note: This isn't quite over yet. I have loose ends and a lot of stuff that happened "off-panel" that I want to resolve. Stay tuned for an epilogue and more author's notes when I wrap this up. Thanks so much for reading this story and giving such frequent, thoughtful feedback.


	20. Tuck You In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. Remy and his family begin to heal, and Logan is a part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following and appreciating this story, I’ve enjoyed talking to several of you about it online and off, via my comments, IM’s, and my Livejournal pages. Thank you for being so vocal about a story that I started on a whim just based on a song that I like.

“What’s on yer mind?”

“Hm. Neh. Nut’in’.”

“No?” Logan looked down at him and nuzzled his temple. “Sure? That ain’t a ‘I ain’t got anything on my mind’ look. Yer mullin’ something over pretty hard.”

“Got a lot I gotta do. Tryin’ ta figure out what ta tackle first.” Remy’s sigh was heavy.

“Can we do it after Sports Center’s over?”

“Oui.”

“Popcorn?” Remy hated to let him up, but the sound of something salty appealed to him. He grunted in agreement, and Logan freed himself, gently righting Remy from where he laid across his lap. He “oof”-ed his way up from the couch, earning him a chuckle.

“T’ought I heard bones creakin’, mec.”

“That’s how it starts, darlin’. This’ll be you in fifty years. Maybe sixty,” Logan amended. Remy’s smile vanished.

“Quoi? Non…didja say in anudder sixty…?”

“Didn’t stutter,” Logan called back from the kitchen. “Joints ache today.”

“Ya jus’ tore out a bathroom yesterday. Ya oughta be flat on yer back.”

“Only if yer gonna join me in that endeavor. Otherwise, just lay yer pretty head back down, Rem.” Remy watched his retreating back incredulously. Aside from a few gray hairs that invaded his jet black waves and beard and the character lines in his face, Logan’s body and skin were firm and supple as a man one third his age. As if on cue, Remy watched Logan stretch in the kitchen as he reached for the cupboard, and he chuckled as he heard the loud crack and pop of his joints.

“What’s yer secret, mec?”

“Good genes,” Logan quipped. “And a healin’ factor that’s useful up to a point.”

“Dat’s why ya ain’ got any scars,” Remy supplied.

“Bingo. That don’t mean it tickles when I get hurt, though.” The loud hum of the microwave interrupted their talk, and Remy decided to wait, flipping channels briefly during the commercial.

“Bring somet’in’ ta drink,” Remy called out.

“Yeah, yeah…” Remy heard Logan’s low grumbles as he rummaged for glasses. His stomach grumbled back in approval at the smell of butter-flavored grease. Logan came back with a large bowl of popcorn wrapped in the crook of his brawny arm and two glasses of iced fruit punch.

“Dat’s de stuff,” Remy sighed as he munched a handful of corn and settled back against Logan as soon as he sat down. Logan arranged him so that he was half-reclined against him, head propped against the pillow. His long legs were curled back and Logan’s hand returned to his bony hip, stroking it absently.

They both needed some downtime in the worst way.

*

Belladonna paused and wiped her forehead, fanning herself from the sweat she’d worked up over the past hour of packing. She shook her head over the sight of the boxes of Julien’s belongings, wistfully running her hand over her own neat, Sharpied handwriting. She saved several of Julien’s shirts aside for Rene, as well as his scant few photographs and some of his baseball caps. She put aside a gold chain and his leather wristwatch, too, in her jewelry box, intending to give them to Rene when he was old enough to take good care of them. She wanted to give him something tangible that he could keep with him. Her son’s occasional blue moods resulted in Belladonna sharing stories with him more frequently about their childhood over Oreos and milk. Mostly, they just gave her the excuse to hug Rene more often, but she ached keenly. She hoped her brother was resting peacefully wherever he was, free of his demons and waiting for her until they met again.

Remy had been wonderful, a surprisingly sympathetic ear and a strong hand to hold when she needed it. The first few weeks had been the worst. He came into the house after knocking three times without response; he heard her music from outside, and the front door was unlocked. He found Bella sitting listlessly at the kitchen table, eyes red and swollen from another bad night.

“Chere?”

“Didn’t hear ya,” she murmured. He squeezed her shoulder and dutifully kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him, puzzled for a moment, then resumed her eerie stare.

“M’gonna pick up Rene from school today, if ya want. I wanna do it.”

“Dat’s fine,” she agreed, even though it was one of the few things she looked forward to all day. She hated the empty feel of the house once she was alone again, feeling none of the relief she’d planned on months ago when she urged Julien to leave during the peak of their problems.

“Got coffee?”

“Ain’ made any since dis mornin’,” she shrugged. Remy helped himself to the cupboard, finding her can of Yuban dark roast.

“Cream?”

“Cabinet.” He watched her, frowning as he retrieved his favorite of her mugs. She didn’t respond with more than a blank nod when he refilled her own cup, adding some of the vanilla nut creamer.

Remy sat across her, invading her visions. “Belle…gotta tell ya sumtin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Bout Julien…chere…I felt him leave. I know what he wuz feelin’. He wuz worried ‘bout you.” That shook her from her stupor, and her blue eyes automatically filled.

“Did he…say anyt’in?”

“He couldn’ speak much, Bella. All I could do was feel ‘im. Held his hand.” He pulled his chair alongside her and held hers accordingly, and she squeezed his so tightly he feared for his knuckles.

“He didn’t die alone, den,” she murmured.

“Non. Didn’ let ‘im.”

“T’ank you fo’ dat.”

“Couldn’ let ‘im go like dat.” There was an unspoken understanding between them that he forgave his brother-in-law and former lover. Remy longed for the early days among them, when he and Bella were so deeply in love and her brother was one of his closest friends, sharing a love of good beer and fancy cars.

*

BAM! Julien’s body jerked, and Remy watched in horror as his dark eyes bulged in realization of what happened, slapping ineffectually at the broadening red stain on his chest. 

“Quoi…? Shhh…chere?” He reached out to Remy pleadingly as blood dripped from his mouth. “Chere?” he repeated as he stumbled, then tripped over his feet in a macabre dance until he tumbled lifelessly to the floor.

Remy couldn’t muster enough breath to scream. He heard Victor’s words and watched smoke rise in tendrils from the gun in Kyle’s hand but couldn’t process them.

Remy couldn’t accept it, minutes later, as he sat against the wall, wounded and flagging. Julien’s body lay nearby in an expanding pool of blood.

His leg twitched. Remy gasped painfully. “Julien?” he called out hoarsely. “Julien?”

“Hnnnn… …please…” Remy heard his low gurgles and his final breaths rattling in his chest, feeling his essence and emotions grow equally faint. He struggled, and his wounds burned, making him lightheaded and nauseous with the attempt to move, but he half-crawled to his brother-in-law’s side, dragging himself over with his good arm. He dreaded having to stare into that ruined face, watching the life drain out of those unsettling dark eyes.

For a tense, painful minute, he put aside his hatred and blanketed Julien with his empathic presence, even though Julien’s physical and emotional agony made him feel as though someone turned him inside out. Julien reached up one last time and shakily grasped Remy’s hand, clasping it against his ribs. Remy’s face was racked with anguish and tears dripped down his cheeks, mingling with the blood spreading over Julien’s dirty shirt. He shook his head.

“Chere…”

“De…sole…didn’ mean fo’ it…t’go dis far…”

“Aw, Julien…por quoi? Why like dis?”

“Sorry…fo’ ev’ryt’in…” Remy nodded numbly, then with more grace than he knew he possessed, he raised Julien’s knuckles to his bruised lips.

“Hate…me?” Remy closed his eyes against the bile rising in his throat and the pain in Julien’s voice.

“Can’t.” Julien nodded.

“M-mad, oui? F-fucked up,” he choked, lips growing blue as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“Oui,” Remy nodded, but he kissed those battered knuckles again, hating the growing limpness in Julien’s grip. “Gonna tell Rene he ain’ gotta worry ‘bout his Oncle Julien no more. Dat ya ain’ havin’ troubles no more.” Julien’s eyes bulged.

“Don’ tell ‘im I went out like dis! Or…*kaaarrrggghh* B-Bella,” he pleaded. Remy shook his head, knowing it was futile to argue with him. Of course Bella would know.

“Shouldna been dis way,” Remy whispered, stroking Julien’s long hair with shaking fingers.

“Don’…leave me alone,” he rasped.

“Non.”

But he did, waiting until his chest rose and fell one last time and the light died from his eyes. Remy reached down and gently closed them, saying a silent prayer over him.

*

“He said he wuz sorry. Dat he didn’ mean fo’ it t’go dat far.”

“I know,” she sobbed quietly.” She squeezed his hand once more and gently removed hers from it. “T’ank you for dat,” she added. “Means a lot.”

“Couldn’t save ‘im,” Remy began, but she rounded on him.

“None of us could save ‘im, Remy! Dere wuzn’t anyt’in’ any of us could do! He t’rew his life away! His way of livin’ was all he knew! He didn’ know any better! I tried t’help ‘im, Remy! I tried,” she reasoned. “Dere wuzn’t anyt’in’ you could do, chere. If…you might not have been dere if not fo’ what he wuz mixed up in. But…he mighta died anyway, and…he mighta died alone. My brot’er…mon frere…he woulda died all alone…”

She fought him briefly, slapping at him with half-curled fists when he went to her. He caught her wrists. “Don’ push me away, Bell! Please!”

“Let me GO!”

“NON! I need dis! I need dis…don’ push me away, Bella.” Her rejection tore at him.

“No…nonono,” she pleaded. “Lemme go…lemme go…jus’ lemme go now,” she cried, but even as the words left her quivering lips, she bowed her face into his chest and hung onto him as though her life depended on it.

“Always gonna be sorry fo’ how I hurt ya,” Remy murmured into her hair, running his fingers through it for comfort, craving its tangible softness and sweet scent. “But we both lost ‘im. We all lost ‘im. It’s okay if ya wanna hate me, chere. Fo’ evry’tin’.” The words stabbed him, and he felt vulnerable, offering himself up as the target of her anger, knowing he couldn’t offer her justice except to let her shun him.

“Non.” She pulled back long enough to stare up at him with watery blue eyes and shake her head. “I don’t hate ya anymore, Remy. Yer all I have left of ‘im.”

*

Remy had been moody and depressed ever since his visit to Belladonna’s house, and he wasn’t sleeping well. Logan offered himself as a pillow after each of them returned home from work, fine with Remy’s sporadic naps that occasionally cut off their conversations mid-sentence when Logan would ask what he wanted for dinner.

Remy and Belladonna began family counseling for Rene’s sake and revised their original custody arrangement to allow Remy to have joint access to his son. In the wake of their tragedy, they needed to grow stronger as a family. Belladonna grew to accept Logan’s presence at family functions, actually sending Logan the invitation herself to Philippe’s birthday dinner. She had a hard time disliking the man her son held in such high regard; Rene worshipped Logan. Joining a support group for families of victims of violent crime helped her gain perspective, but she still missed Julien terribly, aching for him whenever she saw or experienced things that reminded her of him.

Logan wasn’t surprised to see that Remy had dozed off again. He sighed, turning down the volume with the remote and setting it on the side table. He set the half-empty bowl of popcorn on the floor and settled in for a cuddle, covering them both with the blanket he had folded over his couch. These were moments he cherished, absorbing Remy’s warmth deep into his bones, content with the weight of his body resting against him and hearing him breathe. Logan stared down at him, eyes tracing his stately, graceful features as his fingers stroked his chestnut hair.

“Everything,” he mouthed. “Yer everything.”

“Nnnnngh…quoi?”

“Nuthin’.”

Remy grunted, freeing his arm from beneath the blanket. He reached for the hand Logan had on his hip and dragged it down until it rested against his heartbeat instead. “Liar.” Remy opened the channel between them so he could taste his emotions, and Logan shivered at the bloom of warm and affection that seemed to stroke him. His heart filled with love for the man lying in his lap, insistently wrapping himself more deeply into his embrace and lacing their fingers together.

“I love you.”

“Dat’s what I t’ought ya said,” Remy yawned. “Sleepy.”

“Catch a few winks, baby. I ain’t stoppin’ ya.”

“Love you…too,” he said, letting his voice drift off. Logan’s eyes pricked.

They tried as well as they could to get back to life as usual. Scott made him his son’s godfather despite his ribbing that the kid thankfully took more after his mom. Charles Alex Summers had his father’s sense of humor, clearly, having an uncanny knack of loudly soiling his diaper every time his Uncle Logan held him. Remy spent more time managing the shop to give his uncle a much-needed break; Philippe named him as his successor when he retired in two years, and Remy planned to make Nate his partner. The next car Remy completed for show was nicknamed “Corona Kings” and was airbrushed with scenes of a Lousiana plantation and three figures wearing vintage outfits from the Prohibition. Lowrider featured it in their May spread; Logan framed the cover and hung it up in the living room over the TV.

Logan flipped channels absently, often watching the remnants of old movies that he walked in on just before they were over. The shadows lengthened over the kitchen window and the room gradually darkened until the television cast a blue glow over their skin. Remy slept on, his low snores underscoring the low hum of the set.

Logan had just dozed off himself when he felt Remy stir. He rose up from his lap in a hurry, jarring him. Logan looked up in annoyance at the sudden absence of warmth from his lap and the discarded, wadded up blanket as Remy trotted down the hall.

“What the hell?” The bathroom door slammed and he heard the sharp click of the vanity light, seeing its yellow beam shining out from under the frame. That was shortly followed by the loud hiss of piss echoing into the commode. “Sheesh. Kid had ta go.” Logan chuckled at the low thunk of the seat hitting the base and thunderous flush. Remy lived in an older apartment building that didn’t have low-flow toilets, so Logan felt like their neighbors heard them whenever either of them got up to relieve themselves in the middle of the night.

Okay. So he let him sleep a little too long…

Logan smelled hand soap wafting out into the hall as Remy returned, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Why’d ya let me sack out so long like dat, mec?”

“Ya were tired,” Logan shrugged.

“Ain’t gonna be able ta sleep tonight, now,” Remy complained, giving him a drowsy scowl as he reached down to help Logan up from the couch. He pried the remote from him and punched off the set, chucking the control back onto the couch. He dragged Logan after him to the bedroom.

“Can still rest,” Logan argued, knowing it was pointless to assuage his annoyance.

“Gonna just lay up and stare at de ceiling,” Remy grumbled, clicking on the light and automatically nudging off his socks with the balls of his feet. He shucked his tank and tossed it into the hamper while Logan turned down the bed. He stripped himself down to tank and boxers until he noticed that Remy was crawling nude between the sheets. He beckoned to him impatiently. “Come t’bed. Take dat off.”

“Ya sure?” Logan licked his lips uncertainly. 

Intimacy. It was a sticky wicket and mixed bag. Logan never wanted to pressure Remy after their ordeal, and their couplings were sporadic and brief. Sometimes even foreplay halted when Remy broke down or grew sullen out of nowhere. Logan was a patient man, and the need to hold him took precedence over physical satisfaction.

Remy stared up at him. He sighed heavily. “Why so shy?”

“I just didn’t know if ya-“ Before Logan could even complete his sentence, Remy was up, rounding the bed and reaching for him. “Mmmmph…!” Remy fisted his hand in his tank and crushed his lips in a hungry kiss, steaming his skin with his breath. Logan moaned with need, responsive to Remy’s touch. Slender fingers cupped his face and held him immobile as he took from him, and Logan’s hands clamped themselves around Remy’s hard, narrow hips, pulling him against him fully. His skin felt smooth and hot to the touch and his manhood butted against Logan’s belly, already erect and leaking arousal.

Remy quickly divested Logan of his clothing, removing the last barrier between them as they stumbled to bed, groping and clutching at each other, control completely gone. Remy lay atop him, grinding and rippling against him, offering him the friction they both needed. Long minutes dragged by like that, just feeling each other, wrapped in each other’s heat, tongues lapping pulses or teasing nipples until they ruched.

Remy pulled Logan upright and fished in the drawer for the lubricant, preparing him in long, snug strokes. Logan took care of him in kind, kissing him with each press of his fingers as Remy straddled his lap.

“Need dis,” Remy hissed, covering his mouth and drinking from it with unholy thirst. Logan barely managed a nod of assent. He, too, needed it, that tangible proof of how much Remy completed him. 

“I need you,” Logan grated out. “So damned bad, Remy.” He choked out a gasp as Remy shunted himself down upon his length in one hard thrust, and he held onto him, greedily stroking his skin as he began to ride him. Their coupling was perfect as each of them projected arousal, need, joy and fulfillment in turns, rasping endearments, prayers and their names into each other’s tender flesh.

Logan’s arms locked around Remy’s ribs like a vise as his climax claimed him. He bucked up, arching into Remy’s snug heat and receiving deep, drugging kisses like a benediction. He stared up at him in quiet awe, fingers trembling as he brushed back a tendril of sweat-dampened hair from Remy’s cheek.

“God,” he managed, only barely.

“Remy’ll tuck ya in in a minute,” he promised with a lazy smile, and his voice held dark, luscious promise as he urged Logan down from against the headboard, urging him to stretch out blood-starved limbs. Logan collapsed gratefully, then watched Remy in slight confusion. The bottle of slick was out again, and he watched incredulously as Remy prepared himself again, priming his own rosy, still swollen flesh.

“God,” Logan repeated weakly. The kid was going to kill him…why didn’t that bother him? He groaned in pleasure as Remy probed him and bent his head to his sensitive nipple. Logan spread his thighs apart to give him better access, arching his hips up in rhythm to his insistent thrusts.

Clearly, Remy had slept enough…that thought came to him, easily dismissed as Remy hooked Logan’s knees over his shoulders and entered him, nearly folding him in half.

Thank God I have a healin’ factor…and thank God fer Astroglide…

And it was so gooooooooood. The gentle teasing was long over. Remy’s hips shunted into him, pounding him into the mattress. He hit Logan’s prostate over and over again, driving him easily over the brink and staring into his eyes as he came again, this time taking Remy with him. His snug sheath pulled and sucked at him, coddling him in his heat, and Logan clenched up as he felt Remy cramp and stiffen inside him before drenching his insides with his release. He collapsed, shuddering and panting against him.

Love flooded them both, uncontained and immeasurable. If Logan died at that moment, he wouldn’t have felt cheated. The only thing he would ever fear was a life without Remy. It didn’t even bear thinking about. Brown eyes stared up into red, and he knew that Remy felt the same.

Remy lied. His eyes drifted shut as soon as his head hit the pillow, and it was Logan, instead, who tucked him in.

There were no more questions between them, no more guessing or assumptions, no more being afraid to give in, let go or hold on. They could be free to need. To love.

To just be.

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title taken from the BB King song of the same name, one of the best blues songs ever, in my opinion.


End file.
